Desmond. A novel, in three volumes. By Charlotte Smith. ... 1792: Vol 2

D ES M O N D.

A

BY
CHARLOTTE SMITH,

— — — — — —

VOLUME II.

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L ON D © N:

PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATER-NOSTER-ROW, 1792.

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D ES M ON P.

LE. TT ER Jt

TO MISS WAVERLY AT BATH.

Upper Seymour Street, Nov. 10, 1790s.

- WHY did I flatter myſelf, deareſt
Fanny, that the numberleſs diſtreſſes which
have lately ſurrounded me, would either
bring with them that calm reſignation
which ſhould teach me to bear, or that
total debility of mind that ſhould make me
forget to feel all their poignancy.—ls it,
that I ſat out in life with too great a ſhare
of ſenſibility ? or is my lot to be particu-
larly wretched ?—Every means I take to
ſave myſelf from . pain—to ſave thoſe I
love—on whom, indeed, my happineſs
depends, ſerves only to render me more

Vo I. II. B miſerable.

2 D ESM ON D.

miſerable.— How ill I have ſucceeded in -

regard to my brother, the encloſed letter
will too well explain!

Why did I ever involve Deſmond in
the hopeleſs taſk of checking his conduct.
—] am ſo diſtrefled, ſo hurt, that it is
with the utmoſt difficulty I write —How-
ever, as the generous exertions of this ex-
cellent young man have, for the preſent,
reſcued my brother from the actual com-
miſſion of the folly he meditated, though
perhaps at the expence of a moſt valuable
life, you will communicate to my mo-
ther this very. unfortunate affair, and de-
ſire her directions in regard to recalling
her ſon., |

Perhaps I ought to ſay all this to her

myſelf; but I am really fo ſhaken by this
intelligence, that it is not without great
difficulty I can write to you. - My forti
tude, which you have of late been ac-
cuſtomed to compliment, has, I know not
why, quite forſaken me now: and, me-
thinks, I could bear any thing better, than

f that

DESMOND. 3

that ſuch a man as Deſmond ſhould be ſo
great a ſufferer from his Ig atten-
tion to a part of my family.

I have been very ill ever ſince the receipt
of this melancholy letter; and, it is only to-
day, though I received it on Thurſday, that
I have had ſtrength enough to forward it to
you.—l am now ſo near being confined, -
that the people who are collected about

me, weary me with their troubleſome care,

and will not let me have a moment to
myſelf. aon

It would have bah a nde to me,
my Fanny, to have had your company at
this time; but I know that this incident
will add to the teluctance with which my
mother would have before borne your ab-
ſence from her; and, therefore, I will not
again name it, nor ſuffer myſelf to make
thoſe complaints, in which we (I mean
the unhappy) too frequently indulge our-
ſelves, without confidering that this que-
rulous weakneſs is painful to others; ; and,
B 2 to

4 DE SM O N D.

to ourſelves, unavailing :—for, alas! it
cures not the evils it deſcribes. _

As to Mr. Verney, he has never been
at home-fince the October meeting, nor
have I ever heard from him.—His friend,
Colonel Scarſdale, called at my door on
Tueſday, and was, by accident, admitted.
— He made a long viſit, and talked, as

uſual, ina ſtyle which I ſuppoſe I might

admire (fince all the world allows him to
be very charming) if I could but underſtand
what he means. However, though I am
ſo taſteleſs as not to diſeover the perfections
of this wonderful being, I endured his
converſation from three o'clock till half
paſt five; in hopes, that as he 1s ſo much
connected with Mr. Verney, I might learn
from him where my huſband is.—But he
laughed off all my enquiries unfeelingly
enough; and, all I could collect was, that
Mr.Verney is now, or at leaſt was a few days
ſince, at the houſe of one of their mutual
friends in Yorkſhire.—I anticipate the re-
mark you will make upon this —You who

are

"DESMOND. 07

are ſo little inclined to ſpare his follies,
or, indeed, - thoſe of any of your acquaint-
ance ; and, it is too true, that when he is
at home, it makes no other difference to
me than that of deſtroying my peace with-
out promoting my happineſs.I check my
pen, however —and when I look at my
two lovely children, JI blame myſelf for
being thus betrayed into complaints againſt
their father — Alas! why are our plea-
ſures, our taſtes, our views of life ſo dif-
ferent ? — But I will ſtifle theſe murmurs;
and, indeed, I would moſt willingly drop
this hopeleſs ſubje& for ever. Let me
return to one that gives, at leaſt, more fa-
vourable ideas of human nature, though.
it can only be productive of pain to me
I mean - to poor Deſmond.—Oh! Fanny,
what a heart is his !—How noble is that
diſdain of perſonal danger, when mingled
with ſuch manly tenderneſs - ſuch generous
ſenfibility for the feelings of others
When we ſaw ſo much of him in Kent
the firſt year of my marriage, we uſed, I

B3 remember,

6 DESMOND.

remember, to have little diſputes about
him but they were childiſh. Do you not
recollect that when I contended for Lava-
ter's ſyſtem, I introduced him in ſupport
of my argument ?—His was the moſt open,
ingenuous countenance, I had ever ſeen ;
and his manners, as well as all I could
then know of his heart and his temper,
were exactly ſuch as that countenance in-
dicated. Vou chen, in the mere ſpirit of
contradiction, uſed to ſay, that this in-
genuous expreſſion was often loſt in clouds
for whole hours together; and that you
believed this paragon was a ſulky ſort of
an animal. Did - your ever believe that
. ſuch a ſtriking inſtance of diſintereſted
kindneſs towards your own family would
ſo confirm my opinion ?—Yet while I write
he ſuffers—perbaps dies! the victim of
that generous and exalted ſpirit which led
him to hazard his life, that he might ful-
fil a promiſe I, who have ſo little right to
his friendſhip, drew from him A pro-

| miſe

DESMOND. 7
miſe that he would be attentive to the
conduct of my brother! 4 855
Indeed, Fanny, Wa my imagination
ſets him before me wounded, in pain, per-
haps in danger (and it is an image I have
hardly loſt for a moment ſince the receipt
of this cruel intelligence) I am ſo very
miſerable, that all other anxieties of my
life, multiplied as they have lately been,

are unheeded and unfelt.— But why ſhould

I write thus—why hazard communicating
to you, my dear ſiſter, a portion of that
pain from which I cannot myſelf eſcape?

I will bid you good night, my Fanny.
It is now fix-and-thirty hours fince I have
cloſed my eyes— I will try to ſleep, and
to forget how very very long it will be
before I can hear again from Marſeilles.

Write to me I conjure you—tell me
what are my mother's intentions as to ſend-
ing for my brother home. And be aſſured
of the tender affection of your

GERALDINE VERNEY.
B 4 P. 8.

8 DESMOND.

P. S. Did you ever hear of this Madame

de Boiſbelle? and do you know whether
ſhe is a widow or married ?—Young, mid-
dle aged or old?—She is fiſter to Mr. Deſ-
- mond's favourite French friend, Mont-
fleuri; and, if ſhe has any heart, muſt have
exquiſite pleaſure in ſoftening, to ſuch: a
man as Deſmond, the long hours of pain
and confinement.—I ſuppoſe he has for-
gotten that I read French tolerably; how-
ever, perhaps, it was better to let the ſur-
geon write, How miſerable is the ſuſ-
pence I muſt endure till the arrival of the
next letters. | |

LE T-

to a ſtranger.

DE SM ON D. 9

I. E T T E R Il.“

TO MRS. VERNEY.

1

Marſeilles 15th OR, 1790.

MADAM,

IT is at the requeſt of Mr. Deſmond,
that I take the liberty of addreſſing you.
His anxiety, on your account, has never.
forſaken him in the midſt, of what have
been certainly very acute ſufferings; not
unattended with danger.

It may be neceſſary to enter into a
detail of the cauſes that prevent his wri-
ting himſelf, on a ſubje&, which no-
thing but the impracticability of his doing,
would, I am ſure, induce him to entruſt

It is now four days Con I received a
ſummons to attend, at the diſtance of three-
miles from the city, an Engliſh gentle-

* Encloſed in the foregoing to Miſs Waverly.
man,

*
*
- #4 :
4+»

r ye *

10 D ES MO N D:

man, who had, on that morning, been
engaged in an affair of honor. I had not
till then the honor of knowing Mr. Deſ-

mond hom found very terribly wound-

ed by a pi ot in the right arm. The
ball entering a little below the elbow, had
not only broken, but fo ſhattered the
bone, that I am afraid the greateſt {kill
cannot anſwer the conſequences.—Befides
this, there was a bullet, from the firſt
brace of piſtols which were fired, lodged
in the right ſhoulder, which, though it
was ſo fituated as to be extracted without
much difficulty, greatly encreaſes the in-
flammation, and of courſe, the hazard of
the other wound, where the ſinews are ſo
torn, and the bone in ſuch a ſtate, that
the ball could not be taken out without
great pain. I did all that could be done,
and Mr. Deſmond bore the operation with
the calmeſt fortitude. I left him at noon,
in what I thought as favourable a way, as
was poſſible, under ſuch circumſtances;
yet I found, on my. return in the evening,

that

DES MONO. 11

that he had a great deal of fever; and I
am concerned to ſay, this ſymptom has
ever fince been encreaſing. Though much
is certainly to be boped for, from the
youth, conſtitution, and patietice of the
ſufferer I can by no means ſay I am cer-
tain of a fortunate event.

The diſpute, in conſequence” of whith
this diſagreeable accident happened, origi-
nated, I find, about your brother, Mr.
Waverly ; who, entangled by the artifices
of a family well known in this country,
had engaged to marry one of the young
Iadies—a ftep which was thought, by Mr.
Deſmond, as indeed it was univerſally,
very indiſereet.— The interference of Mr.
Deſmond to prevent it, brought upon him
the reſentment of the lady's brother, the
young Chevalier de St. Eloy; and the duet
enſued.

I found, very early in the coutſe of my
attendance, that the mind of my patient
was as much affected as his body; and
that the greateſt pain he felt, was from
| being

12 DESMOND.

being rendered incapable of writing to you,
madam.——He at length aſked if I would
be ſo good as to write what he would dic-

tate, as it was the only way by which he

could communicate his fituation to you.
His advice is, that the relations of Mr.
Waverly recall him immediately to Eng-
land. He is now at Avignon, but not-
withſtanding what has happened, Mr. Deſ-
mond ſeems to think him by no means ſe-
cure from the artifices of a family that has
gained ſuch an aſcendency over him.—I
made notes with my pencil, as I ſat by his
bedſide, and indeed promiſed to adhere to
the words he dictated; but I think it my
duty, madam, 1n this caſe, to tell you my
real ſentiments, and not to palliate or diſ-
guiſe my apprehenſions.— As ſoon as the
affair happened, I ſent, by Mr. Deſmond's

deſire, an account of it to his friend, whoſe
houſe, in the Lyonois, he had, I found,

recently left; and to-day this friend, Mon-
ſieur de Montfleuri, arrived here expreſs,
with his fiſter, Madame de Boiſbelle.—

They

8,”
1d

u.

2
t-

DESMON D. 13

They both ſeem extremely intereſted for

the health of my patient, and have attend-
ed him, ever ſince their arrival, with un-
ceaſing aſſiduity.— He appears pleaſed and
relieved by their preſence; and indeed I
imagined that he would rather have em-
ployed one of them to have the honor of
writing to you; but he ſaid Monſieur de
Montfleuri could write but 17 Engliſh,
and his ſiſter none. |

I believe, madam, that to receive the
honor of your commands, would be par-
ticularly gratifying to my patient, of whom
I moſt ſincerely wiſh that I may be ena»
bled, in a few my" to ſend you'n _
account.

I am, madam, +
Your moſt obedient,
and moſt humble ſervant,
WILLIAM CARMICHAEL;

LE T-

MM DESMOND.

LETTER III.

TO MR. DESMOND.

Bath, Nor. 1 595 1790.

I NEVER was fo diſtreſſed in my life,
my dear Deſmond, as I was at the ac-
count of your accident ; which I received
yeſterday from Miſs Waverly.—I came
hither about ten-days ago by the advice of
my friend Banks, who thinks the waters will
decide, whether the ſomething 1 have
about me is gout or no; and thought of
nothing leſs than of receiving intelligence
here, that you lie dangerouſly wounded at
or near Marſeilles, in a quarrel about Wa-
verly. This is no time to preach to you.
— But I beg, that immediately upon the
receipt of this letter, you will let me know
if I can be of any uſe to you; and, if IJ
can, be aſſured that nothing ſhall prevent
my coming to you inſtantly. I hope you
know, that I am not one of thoſe who can,
with

DESMOND. 15

with great compoſure, talk over and la-
ment their friends misfortunes, without ſtir»
ing a finger to help them.—My life, which
has long afforded me no enjoyment worth
the trouble of living for, is only of value to

me, as it may be uſeful to my children,

and the very few friends I love.—-You
once, I remember, on an occaſion of much
leſs importance, ſcrupled to ſend for me
becauſe you ſaid you knew it was in the
midſt of harveſt :—it is now in the midſt of
the wheat ſeaſon; yet, you ſee, T am at
Bath; and, if a trifling, half-formed com-
plaint, which is not ſerious enough to have a
name, could bring me thus far from home,
ſurely the ſervice of my friend Deſmond
would carry me much much farther.

I ſhall be extremely uneaſy till I hear
from you, and would, indeed, ſet out di-
rectly, if I could imagine you are as ill as
Miſs Waverly repreſents you. But beſides
that, her account is inconſiſtent and inco-
herent. I know all miſſes love a duel, and to
lament over the dear gallant creature who

ſuffers

16 D ESM ON D.

ſuffers in it.— This little wild girl ſeems
half frantic, and does nothing but talk to
every body about you, in. which ſhe ſhews
more gratitude than diſcretion.—Y our
uncle, Danby, who 1s here on his uſual
autumnal viſit, has heard of your fame;
and came buſtling up to me in the coffee-
houſe this morning, to tell me, that all
he had foreſeen as the conſequence of your
imprudent journey to France, was come to
paſs; that you were aſſaſſinated by a party
whom your politics had offended 5; and
would probably loſe your life in conſe-
quence of your fooliſh rage for a fooliſh
revolution.— I endeavoured, in vain, to
convince him that the affair happened in
a mere private quarrel—a quarrel with an
avanturier, 1n which you had engaged: to
ſave a particular friend from an improper
marriage. The old Major would not hear
me,—He at length granted, that inſtead
of being aſſaſſinated, you might have
fought, but that till it muſt have been
about politics; and, to do him. juſtice, he

judges,

1 — 1

nn 053 53 — 4 0

Cr
d
'C

DE SMO ND. 17

judges of others by himſelf, which is the
only way a man can judge. Very certain
it is, nay, he openly profeſſes it, that he
never loved any body well enough in his
life, to give himſelf, on their account, one
quarter of an hour's pain. The public in-

tereſts him as little —he declares, that he

is perfectly at eaſe, and therefore, eares
not who is otherwiſe; and as to all revo-

lutions, or even alterations, he has a mor-

tal averſion to them.—Miſs Waverly tells
me ſhe has written to you, by defire of her
mother, to thank you for your very friendly
interpoſition, and has given you an ac-
count of all your connexions in England.
—This I am very ſorry for, becauſe I am

afraid ſhe can give you no account of the

Verney family that will not add to the pre-
ſent depreſſion of your ſpirits ; indeed ſhe
cannot, with truth} Tpeak of their ſituation
favourably ; and, if truth could ſay any
thing good of Verney, Miſs Waverly
ſeems little diſpoſed to repeat it.—She is
naturally ſatirical, and hates Verney, to

whom

18 DESM ON D.

whom ſhe thinks her ſiſter has been facri-
ficed; fo, that whenever they meet, it is
with diſpleaſure on her ſide, and with con-

temptuous indifference on his: but Fanny,

whenever ſhe has an opportunity of ſpeak-

ing of him, takes care that the dark ſhades
of his character ſhall have all their force.
Allow, my dear Deſmond, ſomething
for this in the account you may, perhaps,

- hear, —Let me have early intelligence of

you I conjure you; and I again beg you

to remember, that you may command the

preſence, as in any other way, the beſt

ſervices of

Lour's moſt faithfully,

E. BETHEL,

LE T-

DESMOND. 19

LETTER IV.

Marſeilles, 29th. Nov, 1790.

US E another hand, my dear friend,
to thank you for your letter of the four-
teenth, which reached me yeſterday.—
Your attentive kindneſs in offering to oome
to me, I ſhall never forget: though I do

not avail myſelf of it, becauſe I know ſach

a journey can be neither convenient or
agreable to you; and becauſe it is in your
power, and in yours only, to act for me
in England, in an affair on which the tran ·
quillity of my mind depends. Tranquil-
lity — without which, the progreſs of my
cure will be flow; and that ſingle reaſon
will, I am perſuaded, be enough to re-
concile you in the taſk I now ſolicit you to

engage in.
A letter from Miſs Waverly, which I
received by the ſame poſt that brought
yours,

20 DESMOND.

yours, has rendered me more than ever
wretched,” Good heavens ! in what a fi-
tuation is the woman, ſo juſtly adored by
your unhappy friend, at a moment when he
cannot fly to her afliſtance !—She had lain-
in only ten days, when her fiſter wrote to

me. — There are two executions in the

houſe, one for ſixteen hundred, the other
for two thouſand three hundred pounds.

Verney is gone, nobody knows whither.—

And Geraldine, in ſuch a firuation, has
no father, brother, or friend to ſupport
her,—Yet the natural dignity of her mind
has, it ſhould ſeem, never forſaken her.
A little before her confinement ſhe wrote
to thank me for my friendſhip for her
brother, and to deplore its conſequences
(Oh, Bethel! for how much more ſuffer-
ing would not her tender gratitude over-
pay me) but of herſelf, of her own un-
eafineſs, ſhe ſaid. nothing; nor ſhould: I
have known it but for Fanny Waverly;
whom her mother has, at length, ſent to
the ſuffering angel, and who has given
me

me a dreadful detail of the ſuppoſed ſitua-
tion of Verney's affairs—I ſay ſuppoſed,

by becauſe there is nothing certainly known
0 from himſelf; and theſe debts were only
I diſcovered by the entrance of the ſheriff's
** officers. I cannot reſt, my dear Bethel,
ho whilſt Geraldine is thus diſtreſſed. My
hes thoughts are copſtantly employed upon the
ds. means of relieving her; but a cripple as
| I am, and ſo far from England, I muſt.
n depend on you to aſſiſt me.— Since then
ort vou were ſo good as to offer to come hi-

ther, I hope and believe you will not

ind f N

heſitate to take a ſhorter journey, much

more conducive to my repoſe, even than

* the ſatisfaction of ſeeing you. Go, I be-
r | 3

ſeech you, to London —enquire into the

* nature of theſe debts; and, at all events,
er- diſcharge them; but concealing carefullß
un- Nat whole entreaty you take this trouble;

Pen even concealing yourſelf, it it be poſſible
I ſend you an order, on my banker, for five

ly; |
C 45 thouſand pounds, and if twice the ſum be
ven Vanted to reſtore to Geraldine her houſe,

4 and

22 DESMOND.

and a little, even tranfient repoſe, I ſhould

. think ira cheap purchaſe.

Do not argue with me, dear Bethel,
about this—but hear me, when I moſt
ſolemnly affure you, that far from mean-
ing to avail myſelf of any advantage which
grateful ſenſibility might give me over
ſuch a mind as hers, it is not my inten-
tion ſhe ſhall ever know of the tranſaction ;
and I entreat you to manage # for me
accordingly. While I find her riſe every
moment in my efteem, I know that I am be-
coming—alas ! am already become unwor-

thy hers. Do not aſk me an explanation;

I have ſaid more than I intended — but
let it go.—The greateſt favor you can do
me, Bethel, 1s to execute this commiſſion
for me as expeditiouſly as poſſible, and it
will give you pleaſure'to hear, that I am
ſo much better than my ſurgeon expected,
from the early appearances of my wound,
that it is probable I ſhall be able to thank
you with my own hand, for the friendly
commiſſion I now entreat you to under-

take.

DES MOND. 23

11d take, 1 am already able to move my fin-
| gers, though not to guide a pen. Myarm
el, however, is yet in ſuch a ſtate, as renders
of it very imprudent, if not impoſſible for
in- me, to leave the ſkilful man, who has,
ich contrary to all probability- and expectation,
ver ſaved it from amputation ; which, at firſt, |
«Ns ſeemed almoſt unavoidable, Montfleuri
on; wiſhes that I may remove to his houſe, in
me the Lyonois, as a fort of firſt ſtage towards

ery England ; but I have been already too much

be- obliged to him, and his fiſter, Madame
ors de Boiſbelle. He attended me himſelf

on; day and night, while there was ſo much
but danger, as Mr Carmichael apprehended,
do for many days after the accident; and
Gon ſince he has been abſent, his ſiſter, has
d it with too much goodnels given me her
am conſtant attention. Montſleuri has been

ted, to Paris, and returned only yeſterday.' He
ſees my uneaſineſs ſince the receipt of Miſs
Waverly's letter Madame de Boisbelle
too ſees it, and what is worſe, my medi-
cal friends perceive it, from the ſtate of
5 my

—

24 D ESM ON D.

my wound; ſo that as it is impoſſible for me,
my dear friend, either to conceal or con-
quer it, my ſole dependence for either
peace of mind, or bodily health, is on
your friendly endeavours to remove it.
How long, how very long, will the hours
ſeem that muſt intervene before I. can
hear that this is done; and what ſhall I do
to beguile them? Montfleuri talks to me
of politics, and exults in the hope that
all will be ſettled advantageouſly for his
country, and without bloodſhed; I re-
joice, moſt ſincerely rejoice, in this pro-
ſpect, ſo faveurable to the beſt intereſts of
humanity ; but I can no longer enter with
eagerneſs into the detail of thoſe meaſures
by which it is to be realized. One pre-
dominent ſenſation, excludes for the pre-
ſent, all the lively intereſt I felt in more
general concerns, and while Mrs. Verney
is but it is not neceſſary, ſurely
to add more on this topic—No, my dear
Bethel, you will, on ſuch an occaſion,
enter into my feelings from the generoſity
of

DESMOND. 25

of your own heart, and what ever that
little touch of miſanthropy, which you
have acquired, may lead you to think of

| human nature in general—you will after

my aſſeverations on this ſubject, and 1
95 hope, after what you know of me, do juſ-
K tice as well to the diſintereſted nature of

a my love, as to the fincerity of that friend-
ſhip, with which, ;

I ever remain,

moſt affectionately yours,

LIONEL DESMOND.

Vol. II. G LE T-

26 DE SM ON D.

LETTER V.

TO MR. DESMOND.

London, Dec. 17, 1790. :

THE moment I received your letter

I haſtened from Bath, where I then was,
to London; determined to execute your
commiſſion to the beſt of my power, though
I neither approved it, or knew very well |
how to ſet about it.—Do not imagine, |
however, my dear Deſmond, that I have |
a mind fo narrowed by a long converſe with
the world, or an heart ſo hardened by too |
much knowledge of its inhabitants, as to |
blame the liberaliry of your ſentiments, |
or be inſenſible to the pleaſure of indulg-
ing them. — But here there is a fatal and
inſeparable bar to the ſucceſs of every at-
tempt you can make to befriend Mrs.
Verney and her children; and the facility
with which Verney finds himſelf delivered
from one difficulty, only ſerves to en-

courage

DESMOND 27

courage him to plunge into others, till
total and irretrievable ruin ſhall overtake
him.

I was aware of all the Aifficulties of the
taſk you ſet me; for it was by no means
proper that the ſmalleſt ſuſpicion ſhould
ariſe as to the quarter from whence the
money came that paid off thoſe demands,
which muſt otherwiſe have brought all
the effects Verney had at his town-houlſe
to ſale within a very ſhort time.— I have a
friend in the law who, to great acuteneſs,
adds that moſt rare quality, in an attorney,
of ſtrict integrity. To him I confided the
bufineſs, and he has managed it ſo well,
that Mrs. Verney is again in uninterrupted
poſſeſſion of her houſe ; and believes, as
does Verney himſelf, that Mrs. Waverly
advanced the money, but keeps it con-
cealed leſt it ſhould ſubject her to future
demands, Of the means by which all
this was done, I need not enter into a de-
tail—You will be ſatisfied to know it is
done, and that the pride and delicacy of

C2 Geraldine

28 DES MOND.
Geraldine have not ſuffered. Vou will be
better pleaſed, perhaps, to hear ſomething
of herſelf. —I thought I might call there
as an acquaintance; and though I re-
ceived intelligence at the door, that Mrs,
Verney was not well, and ſaw no company
but her own family, I ſent up my name,
and was immediately admitted.

I found her in her dreſſing- room, ſo
pale, ſo languid, ſo changed from the
lovely blooming Geraldine of four years
ſince, that I beheld her with extreme con-
cern.— Vet however unwilling I am, my
friend, to encourage in you the growth of
a paſſion productive on all ſides of miſery,
I am compelled to own, that this charm-
ing woman, in the pride of early beauty,
never appeared to me ſo intereſting, fo
truly lovely, as at the moment 1 ſaw her.
In her lap lay ſleeping the little infant
of a month old—The boy of which I have
heard you ſpeak with ſo much fondneſs,
ſat on the carpet at her feet, and the girl

on the ſopha by her,—In anſwer to my
compliments,

DESMOND. 29

compliments, ſhe ſaid with a ſweet, yet
melancholy ſmile—** This is very good
indeed; Mr. Bethel, and like an old friend.
How are your two ſweet children—are
they in town with you? —It would give
me great pleaſure to ſee them.”—T an-
ſwered her enquiries about Harry and
Louiſa in the uſual way; and ſhe then,
with a ſort of anxiety in her manner, for
which I could eaſily account, talked for a
moment on the common topics of the
day ; which almoſt unavoidably led me to
fpeak of France.—She fighed when I firſt
named it; and, with a faint bluſh, ex-
claimed Ah! Mr. Bethel! how can I
think of France without feeling the acuteſt
pain, when it inſtantly brings to my mind
what has ſo lately happened there to our
excellent friend, Mr. Deſmond ?”—A deep-
er colour wavered for a moment on her
cheek ; her voice trembled; but ſhe ſeemed :
by an effort, to repreſs her emotion, and
continued,—** Were you not a moſt can-
did and generous minded man, Mr. Be-

3 thel,

30 DE SMON D.

thel, I ſhould fear that you would almoſt
hold me in averfion, for having been, how-
ever unintentionally, the cauſe of your
friend's very dreadful accident : believe
me, nothing in my whole life, (and it
has not certainly been a fortunate life,) has
ever given me ſo much concern as this
event. All who love Mr. Deſmond (and
there are few young men ſo univerſally
and deſervedly beloved) muſt deteſt the
very name of thoſe who were the means
of hazarding a life ſo valuable, and of ex-
poſing him to ſuffer ſuch pain and
confinement ; perhaps ſuch laſting incon-
venience—for I fear”—and her voice faul-
tered ſo as to become almoſt inarticulate—
«1 fear it is far from being certain that
he will ever be reſtored to the uſe of his
hand.”

That idea feemed fo diſtreſſing to her,
that ſhe looked as if ſhe was ready to faint,
—['haftened, you may be aſſured, to re-
lieve her apprehenſions; and aſſured her,
that not only your hand would be well,
5 but

DES MONO. JT
but that you thought yourſelf infinitely
overpayed for the inconvenience you had
ſuſtained in your rencounter with the Che-
valier de St. Eloy, ſince you had been the
means of ſaving her brother from a mar-
riage ſo extremely improper: then, to de-
tach her thoughts from what I ſaw they
moſt painfully dwelt upon, your hazard
and ſufferings, I gave her an account I
had learned from Mr, Carmichael * of the
family of St, Eloy ; and, as I found: this
ſtill affected her too much, becauſe it
excited her gratitude anew, towards you,
by whoſe interference Waverly had eſcaped
from a connexion with it, I made a tran-
fition to the affairs of France: and know-
ing how well ſhe could talk on every
ſubject, had a wiſh to draw her out on
this.

The little I could obtain from her would
have convinced me, had I needed ſuch
conviction, of the ſtrength of her under-

In a letter that does not appear.

C4 ſtanding,

32 DESM ON PD.

ſtanding, and that rectitude of heart,
which is ſo admirable and fo rare.— Vet,
with all this, there is no preſumption ;

none of that anxiety to be heard, or that

dictatorial tone of converſation that has ſo
often diſguſted and repulſed me, in women
who either have, or affect to have, a ſu-;
periority of underſtanding,—Geraldine af-
fects nothing: and, far from appearing
ſolicitous to be conſidered as an oracle,
ſhe ſaid, with an enchanting ſmile, towards
the cloſe of our converſation—* I know not
how I have ventured, Mr. Bethel, to ſpeak
ſo much on a ſubject, which I am very
willing to acknowledge, I have had no op-
portunity of knowing well. Mr. Verney,
you know, 1s no politician, or if he were,
he would hardly deign to converſe on that
topic with a woman—tfor of the under-
ſtandings of all women he has the moſt
contemptible opinion; and ſays, that we
are good for nothing but to make a ſhew
while we are young, and to become nurſes
when we arc old. —I know that more than

| half

half the men in the world are of his opi-
nion; and that by them, what ſome ce-
lebrated author has ſaid, is generally al-
lowed to be true that a woman even of
talents is only conſidered by man
with that ſort of pleaſure with which they
contemplate a bird who ſpeaks a feœ words
plainly—I believe it is not exactly the
expreſſion, but, however, it is the ſenſe
of it; and, I am afraid, is the general
ſenſe of the world.“ 1 Fin
[ could not torbear interrupting here, to
aſſure her, that if ſuch an opinion was
general, mine was 'an exception 7 for that
I was convinced, 1gnorance and vanity
were much more fatal to that happineſs
which every man ſeeks, or ought to ſeek,
when he marries, than that knowledge
which has been infidiouſly called unbe-
coming in women. I was going on, for 1
found myſelf abſolutely unable to quit her,
when her huſband: and the Lord New
minſter, whom you deſeribed to me at
C5; Miargate

VE Sc. - ”

n
* — —

34 DESMOND.

Margate ſome months fince, entered the
room together.

Verney, who has naturally a wild, un-
ſettled look, really ſhocked me.— To an
emaciated figure and unhealthy counte-
nance, were added the diſguſting appear-
ance of a debauch of liquor not ſlept off;

and cloaths not ſince changed.— The other
man was in even a worſe ſtate; but as he

was not married to Geraldine, I looked at

him only with pity and diſguſt ; while, to-
wards Verney, I felt ſomething like horror |

and deteſtation.

Geraldine turned pale when he was an-
nounced; and ſaid, in a low voice, as he |
came into the room—“ This is very un-
exepected, I have ſeen Mr. Verney only |

once for theſe laſt five weeks —I would
have retired, but ſhe added, with an half-

ſtifled figh—* Oh! no! do not go, you
hear he has his friend Newminſter with

him, and probably will not ſtay five mi-
nutes.— But if he ſhould,” added ſhe, as
if fearing ſhe had ſpoken too much in a

tone

TT oo @ PT”, XN = 0 tm

N

DESMOND. 35s;

tone of regret and complaint“ if he
ſhould, he will, I am ſure, be os to
ſee his old friend Mr. Bethel.“

At this inſtant Lord Newminſter, fol-

lowed by Verney, entered. — The former

appeared ſtupid from the effects of his laſt
night, or rather morning's carouſal; but
Verney, who had juſt heard that the cre-
ditors, who had the executions in his.
houſe, were paid, and the bailiffs with-
drawn, was not in a humour to be reſerved»:
or even conſiderate. Without ſpeaking to
his wife, he ſhook hands with me, and-
cried—* Damme, Bethel, how long is it
fince I ſaw you laſt? I thought you were:
gone to kingdom come.—Here's. New-
minſter and I, we came only laſt night
from his houſe in Norfolk. Damme, we
came to raiſe the wind together; for
I have had the Philiſtines in my houſe,
and be curſed to them, who had laid
violent hands on all my goods and chattels,
except my wife and her brats; but ſome
worthy ſoul, I know not who, has ſent them

C 6 off.

:

4
4
A
K
f

%
1

„„ 6 VOSS EO ET TI

36 DES MOND.

off.—I wiſh I could find out who is ſo
damned generous, I'd try to * them

a little for the ready I want now.”

Oh! could you have ſeen the counte-
nance of Geraldine, while this ſpeech was
uttering !—ſhe was paler than ever; and
was, I ſaw, quite unable to continue in the
room—ſhe therefore roſe, and ſaying her
little boy was awake, who had continued
to ſleep in her lap during our converſa-
tion, ſhe walked apparently with very fee-
ble ſteps out of the room ; the two other
children following her—<© away with ye
all,” cried the worthleſs brute their father,
© there, get ye along to the nuſery, that's
the proper place for women and chil-
dren.” — The look that Geraldine gave
him, as ſhe paſſed to the door, which I
held open for her, is not to be deſcribed—
it was contempt, ſtifled by concern—it was
indignation ſubdued by ſhame and ſor-
row. Good morning to you, Mr. Be-
thel,“ ſaid ſhe, as ſhe went by me—“ 1
know not how to thank you enough for this

friendly

DE SMO N p. 37

friendly viſit, or can I ſay how much my

obligation will be increaſed, it you will have

the goodneſs to repeat it; pray let me ſee
you again before you leave London.” —
I aſſured her I would wait on her with plea-

ſure ; and I felt extremely unhappy as the

door cloſed after her, and I ſaw her -no
more.— Kore!
Well, now Bethe), ” ſaid the huſband,

let me talk to you a little; tell me—are
not your horſes at Hall's, at Hyde Park
Corner?“ I anſwered, © yes;” “ aye? then
you're the man L want; - you've got a helliſh
clever trotting mare, one of the niceſt

things I've ſeen a long time; —have yore $

mind to ſell her?
*{ Certainly no.“

] am for ſorry it, for I want ;uſt och « a

thing. Don't you remember a famous -

trotting galloway I had, two years ago,

that I bought at Tatterſal's, that would go +

fifteen miles within the hour—PT've loſt him
by a curſed accident, and I want one as
ſpeedy—damme, Bethel, I'll give you a

hundred

:
q
.
b
N
1

36 DESMOND.

hundred for your little mare, and I'll be
curs'd if that is not fifty more than ſhe's.
worth.” | |

5 I ſhall not ſell the mare, Mr. Verney,”
anſwered I, very coldly, ſo let us talk of
ſomething elſe.— Pray tell me, what is this.
ſtory which you touched upon, a little un-
feelingly I thought, before your wife, of:
an execution in your houſe.”

& An execution by heaven I'd two, and
that old twaddler, mother Waverly, for
the firſt time in her life, has done a civil
thing, for ſhe paid them off the other
day.—If my wife had not lain-in though
I ſuppoſe, and been ſo much alarmed as
they told me ſhe was, ſo that the good old
goſſip, was afraid of the conſequences,
I believe ſhe'd have ſeen me at the devil
before ſhe'd have drawn her purſe-ſtrings ;.
ſo 'twas well timed, and now I only wiſh
ſhe'd keep the child, for I'd encumbrances
I enough of {mall childaen before.”

N e Good God,” Sir, faid I, “is it poffible
that having. married ſuch a woman as
3 Mrs.

8.

DESMOND. 39

Mrs. Verney, and having ſuch lovely and
promiſing children, you can neglect the
one, and call the other encumbrances.”

« Poh”, replied he careleſsly, * I don't
neglect her—but children—when one has
a houſe full of them, as I think I am like-
ly to have, pull confounded hard; and

as to their promiſing, I know nothing that

they promiſe, but to grow up, to pull
harder ſtill, and find out that I am in
their way before I have any mind to re-
linquiſh the enjoyments of this life.”

„Why then, fince you muſt have been
aware of all theſe contingencies, did you.
marry ?”

“Why what a ſenſeleſs queſtion! be-

cauſe I was a green-horn, drawn in bya

pretty face, and a fine figure. The old wo-
man, her mother, had the art of Jezebel,

and I was a raw boy from College, and fan-

cied it very knowing to marry a girl that

all the young fellows of my acquaintance

reckoned ſo confounded handſome 3; be-

ſides,

Gs "a, D

4 DESM ON D.

fides, a man muſt marry at ſome time or
other.” . |

That,“ ſaid the Peer, who Teemed ſud-
denly awaked from his ſtupor, by a poſi-
tion ſocontrary to his ſentiments “ that 1
deny—'tis a damned folly, and nobody
in his ſenſes will commit it.” He then
talked in a manner too groſs, and too of-
fenſive, for me to repeat upon paper; and
concluded with expreſſing his pity for
poor Verney ; and proteſting, that for his
own part, though he ſaw half the faſhion-
able girls in town angling for him, he
ſhould keep his neck out of ſuch a damned
yoke.

I repreſſed the contempt and indigna-
tion which it was impoſſible to help feel-
ing; and addreſſing the illuſtrious orator —
& It is unfortunate, my Lord, ſaid I, that
theſe are your ſentiments, ſince by them,
the world 1s likely to be deprived of the
worth you might tranſmit for its general
benefit, and your country, in particular,
of talents, which might adorn it's legiſla-
ture, = Your Lordſhip's cotemporaries

muſt,

£©%- 6 A a8 5 32K <- ES

— —

muſt, I am ſure, reflect with concern on
the little proſpect there thus remains, that

4 your virtues and abilities will not deſcend
1 to dignify the future annals of the Britiſh
ly ſenate.” .

18 Oh! the devil may take the Britiſh ſe-
f. nate for me,” anſwered he, I never put
4 my head into it, but when 1 am ſent for
54 on ſome points that there are doubts
lis about; and then, indeed, I go, if mi-
1 niſtry deſire it: but otherwiſe, I don't care
* a curſe for their damned politics. As long

as I keep the reverſion of the ſinecures
my father got for me, and two or three
little ſnug additions I've had given me
ſince for the borough intereſt I'm able

el-
to carry them; not one ſingle guinea do I
care for their parties or their projects.“
Then ſuddenly diſmifling the ſubject, this
= hereditary patriot turned to his friend Verney,
and ſaid—“ Well, but Dicky boy, what's

ral
1 the hour—as you've paid your humble
. duty to Madam, ſhould we not be off —

I've ordered my horſes to be at my own
door

DESMON D. 41

1 * 7 P 8 SYS
* 22 »1 be ab —_— = -” * 8 T »* . by

42 DESM ON D.

door at fix, and I have promiſed Caverſ-

field to be with him by half paſt ſeven to |

dinner—We muſt not bilk him, as he has
made the party on purpoſe for us.” I am
ready, replied Verney, for I ſhall not dreſs
at home.” He then aroſe, as if he was go-
ing, but Miſs Waverly, who had been
out the former part of the morning, now
entered, and while I ſpoke to her, Mr.
Verney called to his ſervant to give him
ſome directions about his cloaths, and Lord
Newminſter ſtretched himſelf on the ſopha
and went very compoſedly to ſleep.

To any young woman, however ſlight
may be her pretenſions, the marked neg-
lect of a man of Lord Newminſter's age is

uſually ſufficiently mortifying: but to Fanny

Waverly, who has been accuſtomed to

exceſſive flattery and adulation ever fince-

the left the nurſery, this rude 1nattention
muſt have appeared inſupportably inſult-
ing, and I forgave the little aſperity there
was in her manner, when ſhe ſaid to me
with a ſmile of indignant contempt, and

pointing,

py os pp Fry

* © kj

DE SMON D. 43

pointing to Newminſter, who was, I really
believe, in a ſound ſleep “ An admira-
ble ſpecimen of the manners of a modern
man of faſhion.”

Verney, who had been giving directions
to his ſervant at the door of the room, now
returned to it Aha! little Fanny,” ſaid
he, “are you there? How doſt do, child?
—Hohoop, hohoop, Newminſter, it is
time to go, my lad come, let us be off.”

« Have you ſeen your wife, Sir?“ ſaid
Miſs Waverly very gravely—* Yes, my
dear Miſs Frances,” replied he in a drawling
tone of mimickry, “ I have ſeen my wife,
looking for all the world like Charity and
her three children over the door of an
hoſpital, —*

* She ſhould not only bok Chart-
ty,” retorted Fanny ſmartly, “but feel it,
or ſhe would never be able to endure your
monſtrous behaviour.”

Pretty pettiſh little dear,” cried he,
* how this indignation animates your fea-
tures—Anger, Miſs Fanny, renders you.

abſolutely

= IT

21
—

-

— —p

i — 34
— iy

44 DESMOND.
abſolutely pigzuant=My wife now—my

grave, ſolemn, ſage ſpouſe, is not half fo
agacant with her charity and all her virtues.”

: — *
r pay - — — — — —
ry * — = _—_— — —

That ſhe poſſeſſes all virtues, Sir,
muſt be her merit ſolely, for never woman
had fo poor encouragement to cheriſh any
When one conſiders that ſhe /affers you, oi

her charity cannot be doubted : her faith, N v

in relying upon you, 1s alſo exemplary ;

and one laments that ſo connected, ſhe can ne

have nothing to do with Hope—" - =;
Fanny Waverly then left the room, and v.

as I was going before ſhe came in, I now of
bowed lightly to the two friends and went ol

out at the ſame time.—When we came into ¶ di
the next room ſhe ſtopped, and would ur
have ſpoke, but her heart was fyll—ſhe an
fat down, took out her handkerchief, and Wl va
burſt into tears. m
I beg your pardon, Mr. Bethel, ” ſaid in
ſhe, ſobbing, “but I cannot command tri
myſelf, when J reflect on the ſituation of Won
my poor ſiſter and her children; when I Wei,
meet that unfeeling man, and know, too
well,

DES MOND. 45

well, what muſt be the conſequence of his
conduct.“ | |
She was prevented by her emotion from
proceeding, and I took that opportunity of
ſaying, ** There is nothing new, I hope,
my dear Miſs Waverly? nothing, juſt at
this moment, to give you deeper concern,

104, or more uneaſy apprehenſions for Mrs.
ith, Verney ?”
'Y 3 « Oh ! no,” replicd ſhe, © nothing very
can new ſince the two. executions which have
| been here this fortnight, cannot be called
and very recent circumſtances; they were paid
now off by I know not what means; and the
vent

officers who were in poſſeſſion of the effects,
into Wt diſmiſſed only yeſterday, yet to-day this
ould WF unhappy man returns; and returns with
-ſhe an avowed intention, as his confidential ſer-
and Wl vant has been ſaying below, to raiſe more
money, Oh! Mr. Bethel, could you
ſaid imagine all my fiſter has endured in this
nand Wl frightful period, during which ſhe has only
once ſeen her huſband—could you ima-
gine what ſhe has endured, and have wit-
| | neſſed

2
—

— ER, —— <A
* — — Je

— —— —— —

- —
2 — vow
— -

*

YU

i
5
72 v
l
LA -
*
4
44
25

46 DES MOND.

neſſed the fortitude, the patience, the cou-
rage ſhe has ſhewn, while ſuffering not
only pain and weakneſs, but all the hor-
rors of dreading the approach of ruin for
her children! you would have ſaid, that
the remembrance of that perſonal beauty,
for which ſhe has been ſo celebrated, was
loſt and eclipſed in the admiration raiſed
by her underſtanding.“

«© In my ſhort conference with her,”
anſwered I, © all this was indeed viſible,
and could not eſcape the obſervation of
one already impreſſed with the higheſt
opinion of your ſiſter from the report of
Mr. Deſmond.”

At the name of Deſmond, a deep bluſh
overſpread the face of the fair Fanny. Not
ſach as that which wavered for a moment
on the faded cheek of her lovely ſiſter,
when the blood, for a moment, ſorſaking
the heart, was recalled thither by a con-
ſciouſneſs that it ſhould not expreſs too
warmly the ſentiments that ſent it forth—
Fanny's bluſh ſpoke a different, though

| 4 not

DESMOND. 47

not leſs expreſſive language, and the tears
that were- trembling in her eyes, were a
moment checked while ſhe claſped her
hands together, and cried eagerly—* Deſ-
mond !—Oh ! how I adore the very name
of Deſmond !—To him—to your noble
friend it is owing, Mr. Bethel, that while
[ lament the fate of a ſiſter, I do not weep
over the equally miſerable deſtiny of a
brother.” |

I have ſeen Fanny Waverly in the ball-
rooms at Bath admired by the men, and
envied by the women; and, with all the
triumphant conſciouſneſs of beauty, enjoy.
ing the voluntary and involuntary tribute
thus paid to her; but I never till now
thought her ſo handſome, for I never till
now thought her intereſting—So much
more attraction does unaffected ſenfibility
lend to perſonal perfection, than it acquires
from the giddy fluttering airs, inſpired by
ſelfiſh vanity—Yes, indeed, my friend,
Fanny Waverly is a very charming young
woman, and I was ſo much pleaſed with

every

*

4 e _ by
> 4 — — -- - 2 2 *
„ - —
2 - re * Lo . _ 2 PT * *
— — — 4 g es” I = * We
— CSI 2. DT Is —— R 8 _ .
— . 4 * - = 5 - > S = 4 * 2 PROM
FR" IE Pn . ———— =
0 2 bl — — 7 — a
.-

IrS>

_
— 2

— oe — —

g == — —
. ns ES SI.
SIS on eras or

every n Kid of * 3 of her own
family during the 1 reſt of, -Qur Wort conver-
ſation, that 1 haye,6nce.ind ulged arſe in
fancying that. it is not at all impoſſible, for
you to transfer to ber the affection, which
while you feel i for her ſiſter, cannot fall
to render you unhappy, and which, per-
haps, mays be attended with, fatal conſe-
quences to the object of your loye,—If: your
attachment to Geraldine is really as pure
and diſintereſted as you have often called

it, it might equally exiſt were you che! huſ⸗
band of her ſiſter, and ſuch an Alliance ;
would put it much more in your Power

than it can, ever be otherwiſe, to befriend :

and aſſiſt her and her childreq—But_ I
know this is an affair in which you will tell
me the heart is not to be commanded, and
therefore 1 will no longer dwell Upon it,
than to repeat, that were you to ſee Fanny
Waverly now, you would think her not
inferior to her ſiſter in perſonal beauty,
(though I own it it is of a different character,)

and you would de convinced that the 1 is Not
as

DESMOND. 4

as you once believed, deſtitute of that fe-
minine tenderneſs, without which I agree
with you, that mere beauty is powerleſs.

And now, my dear Deſmond, let me
ſpeak of the thick-coming fancies,” with
which you ſo ſtrangely tormented yourſelf
at Hauteville—T have been ſo much alarm-
ed by your accident fince, and have had
ſo many ſubjects on which to think and
write, that I have not touched upon your
dream, which you ſurely are not ſuperſti-
tious enough to dwell vupon—You, who
are ſo little ſubje& to the indulgence of
prejudice, and who are not unfrequently
ridiculing others for being too deeply
impreſſed

«With all the nurfe and all the prieft has taught.”
But why is it that the ſtrongeſt minds
thoſe who dare examine whatever is offered
to them with acute reaſon, and who reject
all, however it may be ſanctioned by cuſ-
tom, or rendered venerable by time, that
reaſon refuſes to accede to, ſhall yet fink
under the influenee of images impreſſed on
Vo I. II. D the

50 DE SM ON D.

the brain by a diſturbed digeſtion, or a
quickened circulation? Alas !- my friend,
there appears to be a ſtrange propenſity in
human nature to torment itſelf, and as if
the phyſical inconveniencies with which we
are ſurrounded in this world of ours were
not enough, we, go forth conſtantly in
ſearch of mental and imaginary evils—
This is no where ſo remarkable as among
thoſe who are in what we call affluence and
proſperity—How many of my acquaint»
ance who have no wiſh, which it is not im-
mediately in their power to gratify, ſuffer
their imaginations to play ſuch tricks
with them, (I uſe an expreſſion of Dr. John-
ſon's, whoſe imagination was ſurely not
exempt from the charge) that they are
really more unhappy and more truly objects
of compaſſion than the labourer, who
lives only to work, and works only to live?
Al do not however, my dear friend, mean
to ſay, that you are one of theſe—Your
active ſpirit and feeling heart, ſecures you
for ever againſt this palſy of the mind

| but

DES MON D. [3
but perhaps, from the charge of indulg»»

„ ing other extravagancies, you are not
n wholly exempt— This attachment to Mrs.

if Verney, which has given a peculiar colour
ve to your life for three years, and which yo
re {till cheriſh as if your exiſtence were to he-
in come inſipid without it, is ſurelyta weak
— neſs and an impropriety, which ſuch an
ng underſtanding as yours ought to ſhake off.
nd — But I will ſay no more on 2 topic that is, [

I know, irk ſome to you, and indeed, Iam
too apt to offer advice to thoſe I: eſteem,
fer WE vithout ſufficiently. conſidering, that we
ks none of us love to take what we are atl-fos
an- eager to give—lI cannot however, drop the
ſubject without remarking, that when in

the ſame letter you deſeribe your reflections

2&s on the puerility and inconſequence of the
vho bjects that mankind are ſo anxiouſiy o-
ve? upied in obtaining, and in the next page
jean clate the terrors occaſioned by a dream

ne fainteſt ſnadow of thoſe flecting ſllades,

vhich it ſeems ſo abſurd to he moved by

can only repeat, as one is continually
D 2 compelled

2 DES MON.
compelled to 3 "yu human na-

rare? | | 11)
anbau me very ee

| r you have ſent me of the people

you have converſed with, and the ſcenes
te which you have been witneſs. In an-
ſwer to your remarks and narratives, I ob-
ſerve, that it is an incontrovertible truth
allowed even by thoſe who have written
profeſſedly againſt it, that a revolution in
the government of France was abſolutely

neceſſary; and, that it has been accompliſh-
ed at leſs expence of blood, than any other

event, I will net ſay of equal magnitude,

(for I know of none ſuch in the annals of

mankind) but of ſuch a nature, ever coſt
before, is alſo a pefition that the hardeſt
prejudice muſt, in deſpite of miſrepreſenta-
tions, allow; but while I contemplate, with
infinite ſatisfaction, this great and noble
effort for the univerſal rights of the human
race, I behold, with apprehenſion and diſ-
quiet, ſuch an hoſt of foes ariſe to render it
abortive, that I hardly dare indulge thoſe
Na | hopes

, UE WC e ed RS.

BB Ba t 3 =

DESMON D. 33

hopes in which you are ſo ſanguine, that
uncemented by blood, the noble aud ſim-·
ply majeſtic temple of liberty will ariſe on
the ſeite of the 3 of 1
deſpotiſm. |
To ſay. nothing of thoſe aun which
have ariſen from the want of unanimity
and ſteadineſs among thoſe who are imme-
diately entruſted with its conſtruction, I
reflect with fear on the force that is united
to impede its completion, or deſtroy it
when complete. Not only all the deſpots
of Europe, from thoſe dealers in human
blood, the petty. princes of Germany, to
the ſanguinary witch of all the Ruſſias,
but the governments, which are yet called
limitted monarchies, and even thoſe which fill
paſs as republics—in. every one af theſe
the governments, well we know, pay the
venal pen, and the mercenary ſword againſt
it—ſome openly; the others as far as they
dare, without rouſing, too dangerouſly,
wn indignation of their own. ſubjects —In
all. cheſe Rates, there are great bodies of
D 3 people,

54 DES MON.

people, whole intereſt, which is what
wholly decides their opinion, is diametri-

-cally-oppoſite to all reform, and, of courſe,
to the reception of thoſe truths which may
promote it Theſe bodies are formed of
the ariſtocracies, their relations, depend-
-ents, and parafites, a numerous and for-
midable phalanx —Hierarchies, whoſelearn-

ing and eloquence are naturally exerted in

a cauſe which involves their very exiſtence,

An immenſe number of placemen and

penſioners, who ſee that the diſcuſſion of
political queſtions, leads inevitably to ſhew |
the people the folly and injuſtice of their}
paying by heavy taxes for imaginary and]
non-exiſting ſervices - Crowds of lawyers,
who, were equal juſtice once eſtabliſhed, |
could not be enriched and ennobled by ex-
plaining what they have themſelves con-
tinued to render inexplicable And laſt,
not leaſt, a very numerous- deſcription of
people, who, being from their participa-
tion of theſe emoluments, from family
poſſeſſions, or from ſucceſsful commerce,

at

what
etri-
urſe,

may
d off

end-
for-

earn- x
ed in

eNCE,

and
on of
ſhew |
their}
and

yers,

ſhed, |

y ex.
con-

laſt,

mn of
cipa-

mily}

Erce,

at

DESMON D. 56

ar eaſe themſelves, indolently acquieſce in
evils which do not affect them, and who,
when miſery is deſeribed, or oppreſſion
complained of, ſay, What is all this to
us, we ſuffer neither? and why ſhould we
be diſturbed for thoſe who do?: Chi ben
ſta, non fi muove®,” ſays the Italian pro-
verb.—In ſhort, my friend, 1 do not, as
ſome politicians have affected to do, doubt
the virtue of the French nation, and ſay
they are too corrupt to be regenerated—[
doubt rathet that European ſtates in gene-
ral, will not ſuffer them to throw off
the corruption, but unite to perpetuate to
them what they either do ſubmit to, or are
willing to ſubmit io themſelves I rather fear,
that liberty having been driven away to the
the new world, will eſtabliſh there her
glorious empire—and to Europe, ſunk in
luxury and - effiminacy—enervated and de-
generate Europe will return no more.

Let me, dear Deſmond, hear ſoon from

* Thoſe who are well ſituated deſire not to move.

D 4 your

56 DESM'ON D.

your own hand, that you are content with
the ſucceſs of my negotiation, and with
this long account of thoſe for whom you |
are intereſted. Let me learn alſo your
future deſigns, as to returning to England,
or ſtaying on the Continent, and above all,
that you continue to believe me, with ſin-
cere attachment, 8

** 788 50 affectionately, |
we 8 K. BETHEL.

„inge, 1 beg of you, to write by
another hand till you can uſe your own,
and let me have the ſketches of ſuch con-
verſation as you may have during your
convaleſcence—I mean thoſe on political
or general topics, and not, of courſe, the
more refined and ſentimental dialogues which
you. may hold with Madame de Boiſbelle
—By., the way, I do not quite under-
ſtand what you mean by ſaying in your laſt
letter, that you become every: day more
unworthy the eſteem of Geraldine -e

ſurely think very humbly of your felf+

N N NN. 57
I. E TT E R TED

N AONEITONIN E R 10 3330 35
now 10k Hod to 10e Aol endl

M.anxrſeilles, '8th Jun. 2791.

THE firſt letter 1 was able to write,
was to Geraldine—This, my dear Bethel,
is the ſecond ; and it is with extreme plea-
ſure 1 thank you for your immediate at-
tention to my requeſt, and the propriety
„ vich which you ſeem to have conducted fo

WF troubleſome a commiſſion—I thank you
too for your long letter, and the account,
painful as it is, of the ſcene you ſaw at
24 Verney's—Gracious heaven! why is it,
that ſuch a cruel ſacrifice was ever made?
ical But I dare not truſt myſelf on this ſubject,

the BY and have made an hundred reſalutions
zich never to mention it more; yet, how avoid
belle writing, on what conſtantly occupies my
9 mind ꝰ — how diſmiſs from thence, even for

a moment, what weighs ſo heavy on my
1Ore heart? Let me, however, affure you
e WY Bethel, that though I have no hope, Thad

Dg almost

58 D P'SM/ON D.

almoſt ſaid no wiſh, ever to be more to this
lovely, injured woman; than'a fond, affec-
tionate 'brother—yet, that I will never
marry Fanny Waverly. I believe that
the advantageous picture you have drawn
of her is not a flattering one I admire her
perſon, and think well of her underſtand-

ing—The ſymptoms of ſenſibility and of |

attachment to her ſiſter which you diſco-
vered in her, certainly add thoſe attrac-
tions to her character, in which, I know
not why it appeared to me to be defective
If I had a brother whom I loved, and
whom J wiſhed to ſee happily married, it
would be to Fanny Waverly I ſhould wiſh
to direct his choice But for myſelf—No,
Bethel, it is now out of the queſtion; we
will ſpeak of it then no more; but I will
haſten to thank you for thoſe parts of your
long and welcome letter that were meant

to detach my thoughts from thole ſources

of painful and fruitleſs regret, which J
am, perhaps, too fond of cheriſhing—
Fain, very fain would I ſhake them off,

— ; my

Fas! —— . — 3 ein n . 4

DE SMO ND. 59

my friend, but I cannot ay, I am de?
nied the conſolation of talking to you on
paper of all I feel I have often been very
unhappy, but I never was quite ſo wretch-
ed as I am at this moment. My anxiety
for the fare of Geraldine tears me to pieces,
and JI cannot return to England imme-
diately, where I ſhould, at leaſt, be re-
lieved from the long and inſupportable
hours of ſuſpence which the diſtance now
obliges me to undergoIf I could not ſee
her, at leaſt I could hear once of twice a
week of her fituation, and might, perhaps,.
be ſo fortunate as to ward off ſome of thoſe:
misfortunes to which from her huſband's
conduct the is hourly expoſed. Do not,
however, be alarmed on account of my
health; I believe I could now travel with=-
out any hazard, but there are circum.
ſtances which render it difficult for me to-
quit this part of France immediately. My
friend Montfteuri preſſes me extremely to
return for ſome time to his houſe, and I
once propoſed doing ſo, but now I cannot
D6 do

60 D-E:S MO N'D-.:

do that, but ſhall, I believe, as ſoon as I
am quite well enough to be diſmiſſed from
the care of Mr. Carmichael, go by ſlow
journies towards Switzerland, and from
thence to Italy — This, however, depends
upon events; and you will ſee by the man-
ner in which this is written, that I do not
at preſent boaſt of ſo perfect a reſtoration
to health as to make any immediate deter-
mination neceſſary.

1 perfectly agree with you in the ſtate-
ment you have made of thoſe cauſes which
has made many of the Engliſh behold: the
French revolution with reluctance, and
even abhorrence. To thoſe cauſes you
might have added the miſrepreſentations
that have been ſo induſtriouſly propagated ;
all the tranfient miſchief has been exagge-
rated; and we have in the overcharged
picture loſt fight of the great and perma-

nent evils. that have been removed—All
the good has been concealed or denied; and
the former government, which we uſed to
4 in — has been ſpoken of
„len 1 821 1050201 00) eh

DE SN D 6

with praiſe and regret— This is by 550
means wonderful, when we conſider ho-
many among ourſelves- are afraid” of en-
quiry, and tremble at the ĩdea of innovation
— How many of the French, with whom
we converſe in England, are 'avantufiers,
who ſcize this opportunity to avail them-
ſelves of imaginary conſequence, and de-
ſcribe themſelves as men ſuffering for their
loyal adherence to their king; and as having
loſt their all in the cauſe of injured loyalty—
We believe and pity them, taking all their
lamentable ſtories for granted whereas the
truth is, that no property has been forcibly
taken from its poſſeſſors — none is intended
to be taken and theſe men who deſcribe
themſelves as robbed, had, many of them,
nothing to loſe— Half the Engliſh, how-
ever, who hear of theſe fictitious diſtreſſes,
are intereſted in having them credited, and
cry, “ Theſe are the bleſſed effects of a
revolution Theſe private injuries ariſe
from the raſhneſs and folly of touching the
ſettled conſtitution of a country While
others, too indolent to aſk even the ſimple

queſtion

=
—— ——<—r—_—
* 2 — - 5 ng of

62 DESMOND.
queſtion—< Is this true ?—are the indivi-
duals thus injured ?” {ſhrink into them-
felves, and ſay, „Well! J am fure we
have reaſon to be — that there is no

_ thing among us.”
But though I have long been thoroghly

aware, both of the intereſted prejudice, and |

indolent apathy, which exiſts in England.
I own I never expected to have ſeen an
elaborate treatiſe in favor of deſpotiſm
written by an Engliſhman, who has always
been called one of the moſt ſteady, as he
undoubtedly is one of the moſt able of
thoſe who were eſteemed the friends of
the people—You will eafily comprehend
that Iallude to the book lately publiſhed
by Mr. Burke, which J received three
days fince from England, and have read

Once.

I will not enter into a diſcuſſion of it,
though the virulence, as well as the miſre-
preſentation with whieh it abounds, lays
it alike open to ridicule and contradiction
Abuſive declamation can inſluenoe only

ſuperfeial

ivi-
em-
we
no
;hly
and
nd,
an
iſm
7ays
3 he
of
of
end
hed
hree
read

it,

iſre-

tion
only
feial

D ES MONO. 63

ſuperficial or prepoſſeſſed underſtanding
Thoſe who cannot, or who will not ſee,
that fine ſounding periods are not argu-
ments that poetical imagery is not mattet
of fact. I foreſee that a thouſand pens Twill
leap from their ftandiſhes (to parody a ff ab-
lime ſentence of his own) to anſwer ſuch a
book—T foreſee that it will call forth all
the talents that are yet unbought (and
which, I truſt, are unpurchaſable) in Eng-
land, and therefore I rejoice that it has
been written, fince, far from finally injur-
ing the cauſe of truth and reaſon againſt
which Mr. Burke is ſo inveterate, it will
awaken every advocate in their defence.
One of the moſt ſtriking of thoſe well-
dreſſed abſurdities with which he inſults
the underſtanding of his countty, is that
which forcibly reminds me 'of the argu-
ments in favor of abſolute power, brought
by Sir Robert Filmer in that treatiſe, of þ
which Locke deigned to enter into a refu-
tation—This advocate of unlimited gos
verument derives the origin of monarehies
from

from Adam, and aſſerts, that Man, not

64 DE ＋ 8. M. NP,

being born free, could never have tlie
liberty to chuſe either governors, of forms
5 government. He carries, "oe:

is notion of this incapacity farther than
Mr. Burke ; according to him, man, 1n
general, having been born in a ſtate of
ſervitude ſince Adam, can never in any
caſe have had a right to chuſe in what way
he would be governed—Mr. Burke ſeems

to allow that ſome ſuch right might have

exiſted among Engliſhmen, previous to
the year 1688, but that then they gave it

up for themſelves and their poſterity for

ever.

It was mightily the faſhion. when I left
England, for the enemies of the revolu-
tion in France, to treat all that was ad-

'vanced in its favor, as novelties—as the

flimſy ſpeculations of unpractiſed politi-

cians or the artful miſrepreſentations of
men of deſperate fortunes and wild ambi-

tion. Precedent, however, which ſeems gain-

ing ground, and uſurping the place of com-

mon

8M Nn — WE:

mois 4 in our i canta, may; bers be unite
ed with ſound reaſon if reaſon be allowed
to thoſe great men towards whom we hays
been taught to, look with ee
veneration. 3+ if 1
«© When faſhion,” fare 1 1 has |
once ſanctioned what folly or craft began,
cuſtom makes it ſacred, and it will be
thought impodgyes or madneſs to contradict
or queſtion it.” This impudence and mad-
neſs ſeems by the venal crew, whoſe inte-
reſt it 1s that no gueſtions ſhould: ariſe, to be
imputed to all who venture to defend the
conduct of the patriots ſtruggling for the
liberties of France; Mr. Burke now loads
them with the imputation, not only of im-
pudence and madneſs, but with every
other crime he can imagine, and involves
in the fame cenſure, thoſe of his own
countrymen, who have dared to rejoice in
the freedom of France, and to ſupport the
cauſe of political and civil liberty through -
out the world. Now, without commit-

ting myſelf ta enter into any thing like an

argument

66 DESM ONO.

argument with ſo redoubtable an adverſary;
and with a view ſolely to eſcape the cen.
"ſure of broaching novelties, let me quote a
ſentence in Locke on civil government,

which among the few books I have accels
to, I happen to have procured. In ſpeak-
ing of conqueſt, he ſays,

This concerns not their children, (the
children of the conquered) for ſince a fa-
ther hath not in himſelf a power over the
life and liberty of his child, no act of his
own can poſſibly forfeit it; ſo that the |
children, whatever may have happened to
the fathers, are free men; and the abſo-

5
late power of the conquered reaches no
farther than the perſons of the men who
were ſubdued by him, and dies with them,
and ſhould he govern them as flaves, ſub-
jected to his abſolute power, he has no
ſuch right of dominion over their children
— he can have no power over them but by
their oton conſent ; and he has no lawful au-
thority while force, not choice, compels
ben to ſubmiſſion.“

It

ſary; il
cen.
ote a
nent,
cceſs
Deak-

„(the
a fa -
r the
of his
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DESMON D. 67

If conqueſt does not bind poſterity, ſo
neither can compact bind it. Mr. Burke
does not directly aſſert whatever diſpoſi-
tion he ſhews to do ſo, that nothing can
be changed or amended in the conſtitution
of England, becauſe the family who now
are on the throne derive their ſacred right
(through a bloody and broken ſucceſhon)
from William the baſtard of Normandy ;
but he maintains, that every future altera-
tion, however neceſſary, is become im-
poſſible, ſince the compact made for all
future generations, between the Prince of
Orange, and the ſelf- elected Parliament
who gave him the crown in 168880,
that if at any remote period it ſhould hap-
pen, what cannot indeed be immediately
apprehended, that the crown ſhould de-
ſcend to a prince more profligate than
Charles the Second, without his wit ; and
more careleſs of the welfare and proſperity
of his people than James the Second, with;
out his piety ; the Engliſh muſt ſubmit to
whatever burthens his vices ſhall impoſe—

to

5 68 DE SM ON D.

to whatever yoke the tyranny of his fa-

4 vourites ſhall inflict, becauſe they are bound
14 by the compact of 1688, to alter nothing

that the conſtitution then framed, bids
them and their children ſubmit to ad in-
finitum.
F have been two days writing this letter,
with a weak and trembling hand, I now,
therefore, dear Bethel, bid you adieu! 1
entreat you to write to me as often as poſ-
fible, for if I quit this place, your letter:
will follow me.—I recommend to you, as |
the moſt eſfential kindneſs you can do me,
to attend to that intereſt, which is infinitely |
dearer to me than my own, and with re-
peated acknowledgments of all your kind-
neſs on a thouſand other occaſions, but

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DES MON D. 69

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LET IT FEW
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13 14117. | *

TO MRS. VERNEY,

| Bath, 11th Feb, 2798. ;
I WAS uneaſy, my dear Siſter, at

11 1 your not writing, and fince you have
* written, I am more uneaſy ſtill. The ac-

count you give me of yourſelf and the:
baby frighten me—Dreary as the ſeaſon is,

40 |
* now join with you in wiſhing you in the
ntely country I beg your pardon if my frank»
k ke. neſs offends you; but I cannot help ſay-

ing, you know too well, that your huſ-
band really cares not where you are, and
will not oppoſe your going if you deſire it,
but will, probably, be glad to have you
out of the way - My dear Geraldine, it
gives me the ſevereſt pain to be compelled
to write thus, and to break the injunction
you have ſo often laid on me, not to ſpeak
my thoughts ſo freely of Verney—Your

184 | health

ET:

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70 DESMOND.

health is at ſtake, and I forget every thing
elſe. ' After all, what do I ſay, that you
have not yourſelf ſaid internally a thouſand
times, though your delicate ſenſe of duty
(duty to ſuch a man !) makes you acquieſe
in patient filence, under injuries that
would have made nineteen women in twen-
ty fly out of his houſe, and play the deuce
in abſolute deſperation ?*—How is it poſh-
ble that you can help being conſcions of

your perfections, and of his deſerving

them ſo little? — Can you fail to feel,
and to compare It is impoſſible but that
you muſt at |

— — That fate repine,
© Which threw a pearl before a ſwine.“

There is a quotation from me, which you
will allow to be, at leaſt, a novelty. It
will hardly, however, procure my pardon
for its pertneſs, and therefore, I pray you,
my dear Geraldine, to forgive me; or, if
you are a little angry, I will learn to bear
it, if you will but exert yourſelf (if ex-

ertion

ertion be neceſſary) to go into the country:

and be well. n |
You do not ſay a word 0 Mr. e
and 1 can think and talk of nobody elſe
In hopes of hearing ſomething of him, I
have endured the miſery of long conyer-
ation with that odd old animal his uncle
Major Danby— The formal twaddler loves
to tell long ſtories, and can ſeldom get any
body to hear them, unleſs. he can, ſeize
pon ſome ſtranger who does not know
„im, and theſe becoming every day more
carce, he has taken quite a fancy to me,
ecauſe he finds I liſten to him with un-
ommon patience, and do not yawn above
Wnce in ten minutes. The goſſipping peo-
le here (of which heaven knows there are
llenty) have already obſerved our tete-d-
tie, and begin to whiſper to each other
bat Miſs Waverly has hook'd the rich old
lajor—l like of all things that they ſhould
cheve it, and am in hopes of being in the
ondon papers very ſoon, among the trea-
ics of marriage. — What do you think
5 Deſmond

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Deſmond would ſay to it? Do you think
he would like ſuch a ſmart young aunt ?— |
Poor fellow I have not been able to get

at much intelligence about him, and what
1 have heard is very painful His uncle
has only heard lately, that his health is
much impaired by long confinement, and
that he is yet unable to travel towards
England; but I hope the old croker made
the worlt of it to me He perſiſts in ſaying,
that his nephew could not have met with |
ſuch an accident in England, as if people
here did not ſhoot one another every day,
for reaſons of much leſs moment, or for
no reaſon at all—But though I have at-
tempted, whenever he would hear me, o
repreſent this, and to explain and dwell
upon the generoſity of Deſmond's conduct,
I have: not yet ſucceeded in convincing

him, that it was friendſhip to my brother,

and not any political matter that involved

his nephew in this diſpute— The good Ma-

jor, indeed, cannot comprehend how

friendſhip ſhould lead another to incur dan- .
ger,

DECSMON D. 73

ger, for he bad never in his life that ſort of
feeling, which ſhould make him go half a
mile out of his way to ſerve any body.
This J have frequently heard from "thoſe
who knew him as a young man; and I
believe ſenſibility and philanthropy are qua-
lities that do not encreaſe with years He
retains now nothing of the ingenuous free
dom of the foldier, but all the hardneſs

which a military life ſometimes gives, and
Win quitting it, he keeps only the worſt
part of a profeſſion, that is ſaid to make
bad men worfe—I don't know why I have
aid ſo much about him, unleſs it is be-
Fauſe I have nothing to ſay. of Deſmond,
nd yet cannot entirely quit the ſubject
le provoked me this morning in the
Pump- room, by | ſtanding up, and inhis,
arp, loud voice, giving an account, to
wo or three people that: were ſtrangers to

incing
rother,

volved im, of the accident that had happened to
od Ma- is nephew. in France. An old, upright
1 hon oman, who: was, I immediately ſaw, a

ur dar- Nied goſfp, liſtened for! ſome time very
ger, Vo L. II. E. atten-

74 DESMON D.

and J ran out of the place, half determin-

ſome part of the quarrel with the Chevs

attentively, and then enquired, in a cant.
ing ſort of whine, if the affair had na
been owing to the troubles *— The Major, :
delighted to have a Lady Bab Frightful 42
intereſt herſelf in his ſtory, began it again,

ed, that not even the wiſh I cannot hel 1
feeling to hear now and then of Deſmond |;
from him, ſhould tempt me again to enter
into converſation with this ſtory- telling ola
bore.
My mother, who generally agrees tu
the opinion of her acquaintance, if they
happen to be rich, and who is not unwill
ing to have the obligation Deſmond ha
laid us all under, lightened by ſuppoſing

lier de St. Eloy, to have originated in
difference of political opinion, really e
courages the Major in his notion, and whet
they get together, I loſe my patience el
tirely. To your enquiry, how my me

ther is in health, I can aſſure you, I hart

not ſeen her ſo well theſe laſt eightee
months

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eightct
month!

DESMOND. 75

months, and ſhe is now ſo often in com-
pany, is at ſo many card parties abroad,
and has ſo many parties at home, that,
without having been much miſſed, I
might have ſtaid with you much longer;
however, I did what appeared to us to be
my duty in returning, and I muſt not re-
gret it, though very certain it is, that all
the maternal affections of my mother are
more than ever engroſſed by her ſon—She
is now impatiently expecting his arrival,
and queſtioning every body ſhe ſees, about
the probable length of his voyage from
Leghorn—It is amazing to me, that with
all this tenderneſs and anxiety for him,
ſhe feels no gratitude, or ſo little, towards
the man, without whoſe interpoſition, . he
would never have returned at all—l alſo
wonder it does not occur to her, that it is
far from being certain he did embark at
Leghorn the time he propoſed to do ſo—
For myſelf, I ſhould not be at all ſurpriz
ed to hear from him at Rome, nor indeed,
to learn that he was again the captive ot
E 2 Made.

76 DESMON D.

Mademoiſelle de St. Eloy—Let me not,
however, my ſiſter, add anticipated to the
real evils with which you ſeem deſtined to
contend—All will yet be well—Deſmond
will return in perfect health, and brighter
days await us. Let me hear from you at
leaſt twice a week, and believe me ever,
with true affection, your |

FANNY,

LET.

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DESMON D. 77
LETTER VIII.

TO MISS WAVERLY.

Sheen, near Richmond, F eb. 19th, 179 r

I HAVE delayed anſwering your let-
ler, my Fanny, till to-day, though I
have been in poſſeſſion of it above a week,
languor alone would not have cauſed this
omiſſion, but I have been bufied in my
little removal to a lodging I have taken
here, as Dr. Warren declared it to be ne-
ceſſary, both on my own account, and on
that of the infant I ſuckle, that I ſhould
remove from London. Mr. Verney, I
know not why, reſolutely oppoſed my go-
ing into Yorkſhire, nor could my entrea-
ties, or the opinion of the phyſician, ob-
tain any other anſwer than that my going
thither would be inconvenient to him—l
have, alas! no longer the houſe in Kent to
which I was ſo attached, and therefore,

E 3 rather

78 DESMON D.

rather becauſe it is my duty to try to live

than becauſe I wiſh to live—rather for the
fake of my poor children than my own—1
employed a friend in this neighbourhood
to look out for apartments for me, where
I could have accommodations for my three
children, three ſervants, and myſelf— ſuch
he fortunately found in a tolerably pleaſant
fituation, and at a reaſonable price, a con-
ſideration to which I muſt no longer be
indifferent.

Small, however, as the difference is,
between my living here or in Seymour-
freer, and careleſs of my being either at
one place or another, as you too juſtly ob-
ſerve Mr. Verney to be; I own I remarked,
and remarked with redoubled anguiſh of
heart, that this additional expence, though
pronounced to be abſolutely neceſſary to
my exiftence, and that of his child, is
ſubmitted to with reluctance by Mr. Ver-
ney—I check myſelf, Fanny—lI will not
murmur—and I will even reprove you,
my fiſter, for encouraging me in thoſe re-

pinings,

DESMON D. 79

pinings, which, though I cannot always
repreſs, I know it 1s wrong to indulge—
Do not, my love, teach me to yield too
eafily to a ſenſibility of evils, which,
fince they are without remedy, it is better
to bear with equality of mind, and with
reſignation of heart—Alas ! mine is but
too apt to feel all the miſeries of its deſtiny
—but my children and my duty muſt and
ſhall teach me to ſubmit unrepiningly to
fulfil the latter, for the ſake of the former
— Their innocent ſmiles repay me for many
hours of anxiety, and while they are well
around me, I believe I can bear any thing.

You conclude your letter chearfully,
my Fanny, as if you would diſſipate the
concern which the former part of it muſt
give me on account of Mr. Deſmond—
Alas! the former part is all real, and the
latter only the prophetic hope of a ſan-
guine imagination“ Deſmond will re-
turn in perfect health, and brighter days
await us.” —If he ſhould nor. return, or not
return in perfect health! Amiable as
E 4 Mr.

30 DESMOND.
Mr. Deſmond is, and intereſting as he
muſt be to every one of his acquaintance,

I certainly ſhould not feel ſo extremely
anxious about him, (as my ſolicitude for

my children, is as much as I am well able

to bear) were it not for the unhappy cir-

cumſtance that continually haunts me—

mean, that I involved him in this fatal
affair, and that whatever ill conſequences
finally attend it, will be imputable ſolely
to me—It is this, and this only, that ren-
ders me more unhappy about him than
you or any of his other friends have reaſon
to be, however great your regard for him,
and it is this, that, if the event ſhould in any
way be injurious to him, will overcaſt my
days with regret and anguiſh that muſt be
all my own, for none can ſhare, becauſe
none can feel it as J ſhall—How-lightly
you can talk, my dear girl, of his uncle,
even a moment after naming the intelli-
gence you have collected from him about
Deſmond, but you have no reaſon to re-

proach yourſelf for his misfortune—your
heart

D E S MON D. 81

heart is not weighed down by any of your
own—You cannot, and indeed ought not
to look forward as I do, to ſcenes of future
ſorrow—long, very long, may it be, be-
fore you may be compelled to do it or
rather, may nothing but rich and luxu-
riant proſpects ever offer themſelves to *
eyes of my Fanny.

But I beſeech you to check your vivaci-
ty when you meet Mr, Danby, and be con-
tent to liſten to his tireſome ſtories a little
longer, if liſtening to them is the tax you
muſt pay for hearing of his nephew, I
could attend to the moſt tedious legend
with which felf-conſequence ever perſecut-
ed patience, were I but ſure that ſome au-

W thentic information, as to the real ſtate of

Deſmond's health, would cloſe the narra-
tive; ſuch information, without any tax
being demanded for it, I uſed to obtain
from his friend Mr. Bethel, but 1 have
now no means of ſeeing him, as he is gone
back to bis houſe in Kent, that houſe ſo
near the place which I cannot help regret ·

| E 5 ting

82 DES MOND.

ting—Had, it not been ſold, 1 could have |

gone thither now, I might have ſeen Mr.
Bethel continually, he is an excellent man,
and is ſo much attached to Deſmond, that

it is, pleaſant?) to hear him ſpeak of bim, f

indeed he is the only perſon who does juſ-
tice to thoſe noble qualities of heart and un-
derſtanding that Deſmond ſo eminently
poſſeſſes, but of which three parts of the
world know not the value.
Vet I know not whether it was only my
being myſelf in dreadfully low ſpirits,
when I laſt ſaw Mr. Bethel, or whether he
was himſelf in a diſtreſſed ſtate of mind,
but methought he ſpoke in a very reluct-
ant and deſponding way about Deſmond,
though he aſſured me that he was entirely
out of dangerof any kind from the wound,
and that the loſs of the uſe of his hand was
no longer apprehended—But 1 found Mr,
Bethel knows nothing certainly of Deſ-
mond's future intentions; and if he did
not deceive me about bis health, there is
aſſuredly ſome other curcumſtance relating
| to

eee ® = © = = ww a

DE SMON D. 84

w him that makes Bethel uneaſy He faid
much of the friendſhip Monfieur de Mont-
fleuri had ſhewn to Deſmond in attending
him, and of his ſiſter too; that Madame
de Boiſbelle, who has, it is ſaid, been his
nurſe the whole time. I ſuppoſed, when L
firſt heard of her attendance on Mr. Def-
mond, that ſhe had been a widow,” as it
feemed unlikely ſhe could otherwiſe have-
been ſufficiently at liberty for ſuch an ex-
ertion of friendſhip, but Mr. Bethel in-
formed me ſhe is married, but very un-
happily, and that her huſband, a bank-
rupt both in fame and fortune, is an emi-
grant, and is either in Germany or Eng-
land—Mr. Bethel ſays the lady, who is ex-
tremely beautiful, is now entirely depend
ent on the Marquis de Montfleuri her
brother, whom. ſhe cannot oblige more-
than by the attention. ſhe has ſhewn to his;
friend—How fortunate ſhe is in having
fuch a brother, how doubly fortunate in
being allowed. to ſne her gratitude to him,
by giving her Aiterly attendance to ſuck: a
E 6 man

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84 DESMOND.
man as Deſmond—Beautiful'and accom-
pliſhed as Mr. Bethel deſcribes her to be,
methinks I envy her nothing but the op-
portunity ſhe has had to ſoothe his hours of
pain and confinement. I uſed to think
once, that Deſmond had a very friendly
regard for me, but now, in how different
a light he muſt conſider us] have been
the cauſe of his ſufferings—it has been the
enviable lot of Madame de Boiſbelle to
ſoften and alleviate them Mr. Bethel ſays
he calls her Joſephine—If her good for-
tune ſhould ſtill prevail, and her huſband
ſhould not return from the hazardous ex-
ploits in which, it is ſaid, bis political
principles are likely to engage him, ſhe
will, perhaps, become his Joſephine, for
I have perſuaded myſelf that his long ſtay
in France is now more owing to the tendey
gratitude he muſt feel for this lady, than
to any neceſſity. he is in, on account of

indiſpoſition, to remain there.
And now my Fanny, indeed, I cannot
conclude without availing myſelt of "my
| elderſhip

may venture to aſſert, that where families

DES MON D. | 85

elderſhip once more, to entreat that you
would conſider whether it would not be
better to check that flippancy with which
you are too apt to accuſtom yourſelf to
ſpeak of our mother. Admitting that ſhe
has the foibles you repreſent, of courting
the rich —of being too partial to her ſon,
it is not her children who ſhould point
them out to the obſervation and ridicule. of
others— Believe me, my ſiſter, there is
nothing ſo injurious to that delicate ſenſi-
bility which you really poſleſs, as indulg-
ing this petulance—By degrees, it will be-
come habitual], and the little -aſperities,
which you now give way to only, perhaps,
in writing or in ſpeaking to me, will ſoon
be ſo much matter of diſcourſe. that you
will forget their tendency, and be inſenſi-
ble of their impropriety—lr is true, that I
have not lived ſo much longer in the world
as to be able to ſpeak much from expe-
rience ; but, from the little I have ſeen of
that world more than you have, I think I

are

*
1

j
*
114
[4
*

are divided among themſelves—I mean,
where the father or mother diſagree with
the children, or the brothers and ſiſters
with each other, there is ſomething very
wrong among them all, and J proteſt to
you, that were I a man, not beauty, wit,
and fortune united, ſhould engage me to
marry a woman who ſhewed a want of
duty and gratitude towards either of her
parents, but particularly towards her mo-
ther—Were I madly in love, I am con-
vinced, that any thing like the ridicule of
a daughter ſo directed, would ns a
radical and immediate cure.

Here let me drop the ſubject, I woke
for ever, and to begin one that, I truſt,
will make amends for any little pain this
may have inflicted ; let me tell you, that
fince I have been here, I have found my
health and that of my baby, ſenſibly
amend, and that I now hope fthall not be
compelled to wean him, though I am not
happy, though I know I never can be ſo,
I have, at leaſt, obtained a tranſient calm.

The

DE SM ON. 97

The agitation occaſioned by the late pain-
ful events, is gradually, though flowly
ſubſiding; I can now return to my books
with attention leſs diſtracted, and have been
reading a deſcription of ſome of the ſou-
thern parts of Europe, particularly of the
Lyonois, &c.— l ſhould like extremely to
ſee thoſe accounts which I find Mr. Def-
mond ſends to his friend Bethel, becauſe
he has ſo much taſte, and is ſo intelligent
a traveller There was no poſhbility you
know of aſking in plain terms for this in-
dulgence, I hinted it as much as I dared,
though Bethel did not, or perhaps would
not underſtand me But to return to my-
ſelf, and what you would think melan-
choly, though it is not to me an unpleaſ-
ing way of paſſing my time Dreary as the
ſeaſon yet. is, I have betaken myſelf to
my ſolitary walks in the fields that ſur-
round this houſe, which, for a ſituation
lo near London, is extremely pleaſant, and
quite retired—T find the perfect ſecluſion,
the uninterrupted tranquillity I enjoy now,

ſoothing

88 DESMOND.

ſoothing to my ſpirits, and of courſe, be-
neficial to my health, if I do but hear
favourable accounts from the continent,
and nothing new happens embarraſſing in
the pecuniary affairs of Mr. Verney, I
ſhall be ſoon reſtored to as chearful a ſtate
as I am now likely ever to enjoy—Aſlift the
progreſs of my reftoration, my deareſt
Fanny, by frequent letters, ſince I cannot
have the delight of your company, and
chear with your vivacity, which I love
(even in reproving its wildeſt ſallies).

Your affectionate
GERALDINE.

J had but juſt ſealed my letter, when
a pacquet was brought me from Deſmond
himſelf—Yes, my Fanny, a letter written
with his own hand, and not with ſo much
apparent weakneſs as one would imagine
Il hope there is nothing improper in the
exceſſive pleaſure this letter gives me
Gratitude can ſurely never be wrong, or
if it can be carried to exceſs, its exceſs

15

» . ? * .

DESMOND. 89

is here pardonable—I know not _ hows I
would ſay, my ſpirits. are fo fluttered
This welcome letter has been very long in
coming, I will ſend you a copy of it in a

poſt or two Heaven wu you, | my
Fanny,

L ET.

go DESMOND.
LETTER TE

TO MR. DESMOND.

Hartfield, March 18th, 1797.

I WAS in hopes, my dear Deſmond,
that long before this, I ſhould have ſpoken
to you once more in England, inſtead of
directing to you in Switzerland, Your
letter of the zoth January“, bade me ſan-
guinely hope this, I therefore forbore to
write; but inſtead of ſeeing you reſtored to
health, to tranquillity, and your country,
I receive a melancholy letter from the
pays de Vaud Vet you aſſure me that your
arm no longer reminds you of your acct-
dent, and I truſt to your aſſurances, as
well as to the evidence of your hand-
writing—You tell me alſo, that your
health is much amended, why then, my
friend, this extraordinary depreſſion ot

* Which does not appear.
ſpirits?

ſpir
tren
not
tale
and
ſtill
deec
ſour
am ;
ever
und
mon
enql
denc
ſhip,
perfe
once
rioſit
for y
the
is, I.
mun;
to yo
You n

DE SMO ND. 91

ſpirits ?—I own I am made uneaſy, ex-
tremely uneaſy, in obſerving it, and can-
not help lamenting that your time, your
talents, and your temper, are thus waſted
and deſtroyed—Is it, that this fatal paſſion
ſtill obſcures your days? or is there, as in-
deed I ſtrongly ſuſpect, is there ſome other
ſource of uneafineſs more recent, to which I

am a ſtranger ? It has been a rule with me,

even while you were, in ſome meaſure,
under my guardianſhip, never, dear Deſ-
mond, to intrude upon you with officious
enquiries, nor to aſk more of your confi»
dence than you choſe to give me—PFriend-
ſhip, like the ſervice of heaven, ſhould be
perfect freedom; yet forgive me, if for
once I intrude upon your reſerve with cu-
riofity that ariſes ſolely from my regard
for you—ls there in this any circumſtance,
the pain of which I can remove? if there
is, I will be ſatisfied with ſuch a partial com-
munication as may enable me to be of uſe
to you, without enquiring into particulars
you may wiſh to conceal.

1 ſend

= .

A
*. 1

1

il
#48
*

. £7

92 DESMOND.

I ſend you, with other books, one that now
engroſſes all the converſation of this coun-
try, which, from its boldneſs and fingy-
larity alone, and, written as it is, by an
obſcure individual“, calling himſelf the
ſubje& of another government, could ne-
ver have attracted ſo much attention, or
have occaſioned to the party whoſe princi-
ples it decidedly attacks, ſuch general
alarm, if there had not been much ſound
ſenſe in it, however bluntly delivered—As
I had rather hear your opinion of it, than
give you my own, I will leave the diſſcuſ-
fion of politics, to tell you of what paſſes
among your acquaintance—This neigh-
bourhood is almoſt wholly occupied by
the improvements which Sir Robert Stam-
ford is making at Limwell, the place ſo
regretted by Mrs. Verney—The beautiful

little wood which overſhadowed the clear

and rapid rivulet, as it haſtens through
theſe grounds to join the Medway, has
been cut down, or at leaſt a part of it only

* Paine.
has

call

DESM ON D. 93

has been ſuffered to remain, as what he
calls a collateral ſecurity againſt the north»
eaſt wind, to an immenſe. range of forc-
ing and ſucce ſſion houſes, where not
only pines are produced, but where differ-
ent buildings, and different. degrees of
heat, are adapted to the ripening cherries
in March, and peaches in April, with al-
moſt every other fruit out of its natural
courſe—The hamadryades, to whom I re-

member, on your firſt acquaintance with
n the Verney family, you addreſs ſome
4 charming lines of poetry, becauſe it was
-

under their protection you firſt beheld
Geraldine ; the hamadryades are driven
from the place which is now occupied by
5 culinary deities— The water now ſerves

7 only to ſupply the gardeners, or to ſtag-
„ante in ſtews for the fattening of carp and
fal Wrench ; heaps of manure pollute the turf,
eat ¶ and rows of reed fences divide and disfigure
gl thoſe beautiful grounds, that were once

lawns and coppices—Every thing is facri-
iced to the luxuries of the table; and the
country

7 > > * w - 1 *

2 2 2, - , A q 4 2 Sa 2
. Pr
* * .

94 DE SM ON D.

country neighbours, though many of them hi

poſſeſſed the uſual elegancies and ſuper. ſo

fluities of modern life before, are compel . to
led to hide their diminiſhed heads, when no
Sir Robert Stamford gives an entertain. me
ment—Riches, however, unworthily ac. ha
quired, are a ſure paſſport to the mouth the
of honor,” not only of the common herd of kn,
thoſe who are called gentlemen and la len
dies,” but to the titled and the high born, mit
who, while they court new-riſen opulence, WF tem
envy, and yet deſpiſe the upſtart who ha and
obtained it—I never meet this great man WF dies
myſelf, as our former connections, and i him
our preſent eſtrangement, are ſo generally WM of ti
known, that we are never invited tog thoſ
ther, but he is almoſt always the ſubject of BM reac;

diſcourſe, at parties where I d go, and men
always ſpoken of with wonder; for hard thing
a week paſſes in which ſome new improve them
ment in luxury does not excite admiration ſends
at his boundleſs expence, which, fron tion

ſuch a man, is ſuppoſed to be ſupporte

by a great fortune, for, as he has raiſe
5 himlſel!,

DES MOND. 95

himſelf, it ſeems unlikely that he ſhould
ſo little underſtand the value of money, as
to ſquander it thus profuſely, if he had
not a great deal of it. To thoſe, who are
more in the ſecret, all this ought not per-
haps to be wonderful; yet, though I know
the very extent of Stamford's abilities, and
know that he has nothing like eminent ta-
lents, though perhaps an acute and active
mind ; I have, I own, now and then been
tempted to wonder at his extraordinary
and rapid riſe, and have joined the old la-
dies, who talk him over, in pronouncing
him a zwonderfully lucky man When I hear
of the oſtentation with which he diſplays
thoſe acquiſitions, which are beyond the
reach of others—When I am told, that
men of the firſt rank come to eat his good
things, and praiſe his ſkill in collecting
them When I learn that the Miniſter
ſends for him expreſs, and that no reſolu-
tion of importance is adopted without
conſulting him And recolle& how very
few years are paſſed ſince he was a country

| Attorney,

95 DESMOND.
Attorney, and rode more miles for half. a-
crown than a poſtilion—I cannot always

repreſs a degree of aſtoniſhment, and ſay,

„We know the thing is neither new nor rare,
But wonder how the devil it got there!“

It is pleaſant enough to hear the conver.

ſation that ſometimes paſs about this man
at the dinner and tea tables—The awe
that the ſuperiority of riches creates, re-
preſſes the malignity that envy engenders,
though with ſo much difficulty repreſſes it,
that it is every moment obliquely appear-
ing For my own part, I regard this man
with ſo much contempt, that the only pain
I now feel from his reſiding in my imme-
diate neighbourhood, ariſes from my re-
gret for the loſs of Mrs. Verney, whoſe
fociety indeed, I had not learned to reliſh
when I was deprived of it. This confeſ-
ſion is imprudent, perhaps, my friend,
and encouraging that unhappy prepoſſeſ-
ſion which I have always blamed, but

Pope.
truth

trut]
ſee e
and
gret
Liny
of r
ſtren
lieve
capal
tende

Deſn
gyric
cure
tion
ſcore-

conve
me a
your's
who þ

never

yet, I
nfatua
only ſe
father
vo 1

DES MOND. 97

truth extorts it from me, and the more I
ſee of the uſual dull round of country viſits
and country converſation, the more I re-
gret the time, when I was ſure to find at
Linwell, a woman, who, to the "ſoftneſs
of manners of her own ſex, unites a
ſtrength of underſtanding, which we be-
lieve peculiar to ours, and who, with ſo
capable a head, has a heart ſo admirably
tender—Y ou will be alarmed, perhaps,
Deſmond, at the warmth of my pane-
gyric, and fancy, that in endeavouring to
cure you, I have myſelf caught the infec-
tion—But be at peace, my friend, on that
ſcore -though Geraldine, in the two laſt
converfations I had with her, has made
me a ſincere convert to an aſſertion of
your's, which I uſed to deny, that he,
who has once ſeen and loved her, could
never diveſt himſelf of his attachment,
yet, I am no longer liable to feel this fatal
intatuation in the exceſs you do, and am
only ſenfible of ſuch regard for her, as a
father or brother might feel—I.own, that
Vo I. II. F even

98 DES MOND.

even the depreſſion of ſpirit which her
unhappy marriage occaſions, is not with-
out its charms—but when I ſee her ftrug.
gling to palliate what he will not al.
low her to conceal, the wild abſurdities
and ruinous follies of her huſband—
when I ſee her mild endurance of injuries,
and that her patience and ſweetneſs are
vainly endeavouring

— & To ſpread
* A guardian glory round her ideot's head*,”

I feel reſpe& bordering on adoration, and
ſet her above Octavia, or any of the fair
examples in ancient ſtory—Yes! my dear
Deſmond, I not only acquit you of folly,
but have more than once caught myſelt
building for your delightful chateaux en Ef
pagne, which, however, I will not feed
your fick fancy by ſketching, for Ver-
ney's life, notwithſtanding his irregulart
ties, is a very good one, and it were theſe

* Hayley.

fore

DESMOND. 99

fore much wiſer in me to direct your
thoughts to the former and more rational
advice I gave you, when I expreſſed my
hopes, that you might in time carry your
affections to the very lovely and animated
Fanny Waverly, who, if I am any judge
of the female heart, from the countenance,
and the manner, would not let you deſpair,
and who, as ſhe is very far from ſuſpecting
your partiality to her ſiſter, perhaps, puts
down to her on account the extraordinary
exertions of friendſhip which you have

.made for her family; in becoming the tra-

velling friend of her brother.

I do not hear that Waverly has yet
made his appearance in England, though
I have enquired of ſeveral of my acquaint-
ance, who are lately come from Bath, and
who tell me that his mother, Mrs. Wa-
verly, is diſtreſſed by his long delay, and
the uncertainty of what is become of him;
that ſhe is compelled to have a party with +
her all day, who engage her at cards, in
order to detach her mind from this inſup-

F 2 portable

1900 PESMON D.

portable anxiety—Fortunate reſource !—
How theſe good folks are to be envied,
who can, in tranquillity ſolace, in afflic-
tion, conſole themſelves with a rubber!
«© A bleſſing on him,” quoth Sancho, who
firſt invented the thing called ſleep, it co-
vers a man over like a cloak” -A bleff-
ing, ſay I, on him who firſt invented
thoſe two-and-fifty ſquares of painted paper
— They blunt the arrows of affliction,
#6 and reconcile man to his lot*.”

While the elder lady of the Waverly
family is thus diverting the pangs of ma-
ternal diſquietude, and the younger try-
ing to think leſs of a certain ſentimental
wanderer, by flirting, to uſe her own
phraſe, with all the ſmarteſt men at Bath,
who aſſiduouſly ſurround her Geraldine
remains in perfect retirement at a lodging
near Richmond, with her children, and
only two ſervants—ſhe has no carriage
with her, and never goes out but to walk

9 Comper.
with

with
declit
learn!
and h
ſome!
ſold=
whit
tO g
for hi
fear
hunt
mare
be at
Newt
The

faid |
found
celeb!
the n
moſt ,
trious
theſe

This

mont!

e

DESMOND: 101
with her little ones; and having, wiſely,
declined all viſitors, ſhe has not, I hope, yet
learned that all Verney's town<carriages
and horſes, except only a poſt-chaiſe, which
ſomebody re-purchafed for him, are lately
ſold—He is himſelf gone into Yorkſhire,
whither he abſolutely refuſed to ſuffer her
to go, when country air was preſcribed
for her health, and it is reported, and T
fear with truth, that he has eſtabliſhed an
hunt there, of which he bears the greateſt
ſhare of the expence, though it is ſaid to
be at the joint charge of himſelf, Lord
Newminſter, and Sir James Deybourne.
The arrangement at Moorefly Park, is“
ſaid (and ſtill} I believe with too much
foundation) to conſiſt of three of the moſt
celebrated courtezans, who are at this time
the moſt faſhionable; and of courſe, the
molt ex penſive Every one of theſe illuſ-
trious perſonages appropriating one of
theſe ladies for the time of their reſidence.
This has been going on ever ſince the
month of January, and is to end only with

| F 3 the

102 DES MOND.

the hunting ſeaſon— Lou will wonder,
perhaps, how I got at all this intelligence,
but my ſolicitude for Geraldine conquers
the diſlike I have to enter into that ſort of
converſation which is called goſſipping,
and I happen to have an acquaintance at
W-—, a ſpinſter, ſomewhat paſſed the
bloom of life, and who, very much againſt
her inclinations, has hitherto remained un-
ſapped by careſſes, unbroken in upon by
tender ſalutations“, but, though without
fortune, ſhe is of a good family, and be-
ing allied to ſome great people, and hay-
ing contrived to make herſelf uſeful to
others, ſhe is received alternately at ſeve-
ral faſhionable houſes, where ſhe flatters
the lords and ladies; fits with the young
miſſes while their maſters are with them;
and reads aloud to the blind or fick dowa-
ger, who loves a newſpaper or a novel;
but though ſhe is thus three parts of the
year among her illuſtrious friends, ſhe
chuſes always to reſerve a home, which

* Sterne,

happens

DE SMO N D. 103

happens to be à ſmall, neat lodging at
W, where ſhe has been many n
an occaſional inhabitant.

Now it chanced, that when firſt Ge-
raldine was married, and came a lovely,
blooming creature of eighteen into this
neighbourhood, this Miſs Elford, was
among her earlieſt viſitors. —lt is ſaid, that
a young and handſome married woman is
generally an object of diflike to ladies who
are

« Withering on the virgin thorn,
In fingle bleſſedneſs.“

but Miſs Elford, as if to contradict ſo in-
vidious an aſſertion, was ſeen to take a pe-
culiar and lively intereſt in the welfare of
her dear friend Mrs. Verney (for a dear
friend ſne ſoon became), and her good hu-
mour, which had before been but little
remarked, became now very eminent—the
change was accounted for partly by the
acquiſition ſhe had made of ſo pleaſant an
acquaintance as Mrs. Verney, whoſe houſe

* Shakeſpeare, |
s F 4 within-

4 Fi 7
1
*
1
by
0
J
b
|
|
»
4
ö
n

1
1
I.

FTA OM 2. 3-1

4 RESIGNS.

within a mile of the town, was.extremely
convenient to her, and whoſe coach and
ſeryants were always at her command, and
partly by the ſuppoſed attention of a very
handſome clergyman, who having two
years before given up à fellowſhip at Ox-
ford to marry, a very pretty woman, whom
he paſſionately loved, had, within twelve
months loſt her, and now had accepted a
curacy at a diſtance from the ſcene of his
paſt happineſs and misfortune, and in at-
tempting to diſſipate his grief, had mixed
much in the ſociety of the neighbourhood,
and had appeared particularly pleaſed in
that of Miſs Elford, who paſſed for“ a
moſt ſenſible woman.” When Verney ſet-
tled at Linwell, this gentleman, Mr.

Mulgrave, was continually at the houſe

where Miſs Elford frequently reſided allo,
and where (eſpecially after Verney gave
him a living, which happened to fall at that
time) it was ſuppoſed their intended union
was rapidly advancing to its concluſion ;

when ſuddenly, Mr. Mulgrave grew cold
and

mome
ſelf to
in rec
made
ed the
that 11
it inte
conce
Verne
not th
cheriſ
hates

lignit)
or cov
ceals t
blance

pathet

2 |
DESMOND. 105

and reſerved, and (Pk mortified Miſs El-
ford loſt once mote the proſpect” of a
immediate and fortunate eſtabliſhment.
T hough, till then, *Mfs. Verney bad

been, in her eſtimation, the beſt, ſweeteſt, 4
deareſt creature in the world, the exceflive
fondneſs of Miſs Elford declined from this
moment; and as ſhe could not ſuffer her-
ſelf to think that ſhe had been premature
in reckoning on the impreſſion ſhe had'
made on Mr. Mulgrave, or that ſhe want--
ed the captivating talents neceſſary to fix
that impreſſion when it was made; ſhe took 2
it into her head that Mr. Mulgrave had «A
conceived an improper affection for Mrs. 4;
Verney, and though there was probably 5
not the leaſt grounds for this idea, ſhe has |
cheriſhed it ever ſince, and conſequently '
hates Geraldine, with an inveterate ma-
lignity, which no other cauſe could raiſe,
or could ſuſtain— Still, however, ſhe con-
ceals this hateful ſentiment under the-ſem- © .
blance of friendſhip—She laments, moſt'
pathetically; the hard fate of ** that ſweet

5 woman”

106 DESMOND.

woman”-—Sheds crocodile tears over the
ruinous extravagancies of Verney (of.
which, however, ſhe has always the; earlieſt
intelligence), and tells every body how
long ſhe foreſaw theſe fatal propenſities in
the huſband of her charming friend betore
they broke out—talks of the vanity of all
ſublunary plans of happineſs, and thanks
ber good God !—for having placed ber lot,
where ſhe ,is not expoſed to theſe heart-
rending viciſſitudes.— This good little gen-
tlewoman, then, great part of whoſe life,
I really believe, paſſes in collecting and
diſperſing accounts of the failures, failings,
faults, and follies of her acquaintance, has

been of late more than uſually active; and

as ſhe finds I liſten to her with a greater

degree of attention than I uſed to afford

her, and 1s not aware of the motive I have

for doing ſo, I ſce ſhe entertains a thou-

ſand wandering fancies relative to my aſſi-

duity, and eagerly exerts herſelf to obtain
its continuance—I am a widower, about

her own age—I have children who may

want

want
I ma!
Of al
derfi

how:
prud
rage
even
reali:
obtai
and 1
nece!
diſpe
that

whot
am
form
neig
pictr
owes
of m
paſſe
who

DES MOND. toy

want the care of ſuch à diſereet perſon
I may myſelf defire a rational companion —
Of all theſe conſiderations, it is really won»
derful to remark the effect, and to obſerve
how amiable, diſcreet, and reaſonable my
prude affects to be I am ſorry to encou-
rage hopes, which I am afraid I cannot
even for your ſervice, my dear Deſmond,
realize, bat as I have no other means of
obtaining ſuch intelligence as you want,
and ſuch as indeed appears to me abſolutely
neceſſary to enable either of us to aſſiſt in
diſperſing thoſe heavy clouds of calamity
that are continually hanging over her, for
whom we are both fo anxious —I hope 1
am juſtified in availing mytelf of the in-
formation ſo readily given me by my
neighbour—l wiſh I could add that the
picture I have draun of Verney's conduct,
owes its darkeſt touches to the ſharp hands
of malignant envy, through which it has
paſſed - But on enquiring of other people;
who are quite diſintereſted; and who really

i admire

108 DES MOND.

admire and regret the lovely victim of his
follies, the circumſtances and proceedings

of Verney are repreſented in the ſame

way.

I have had within this laſt week ſome
ſymptoms that threaten a return of th»
gout (if gout it be) that has-ſo long hung
about me, and as my friend Banks, on
whoſe ſkill I have a great reliance, perfiſts
in ſaying, that my future enjoyment of
life depends on my having a regular fit,
I ſhall, if theſe flying complaints are not
ſoon diſſipated, go again to Bath, as ſoon
as my lent corn 1s in the ground, which
three weeks will complete—We have hr
therto had a remarkable fine ſeaſon, and
my farming is likely to go on moſt proſpe-
rouſly—Harry is doing well at Wincheſter,
and the maſters afſure me he will be a
very clever fellow—I ſhall take Louiſa
with me, and put her to School at Bath
for the time I continue there, which will
Pe be three months—Long, long

before

DESMOND. ro

before that time, my dear Deſmond, I *
hope to hail your return to England, and.
to tell you perſonally, how truly Lam,

Your attached and faithful, I

: 8 12008 Tin
ERASMUS BETHEL,
, 4 Ii „Mi ids

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110 D ESM ON D.
LET PTE RK;

TO MR BETHEL,

Lauſanne, April roth, 1791.

YOUR letter, with a pacquet of books,
reached me here, my friend, by the hands
of our old acquaintance Aſhby, who took
them up on his way, and delivered them
ſafely to me three days ago—How ſhall ],
how ought I to reply to ſuch friendly. en-
quiries, ſuch generous offers as your's !—
I can find no words that anſwer my idea
of all I ought to ſay to thank you—none
that ſeem adequate to excuſe that want of
confidence, perhaps you will think of gra-
titude, which I muſt ſeem to ſhew, when
I fay, that though I am very certainly moſt
unhappy, it is impoſſible for me to avail
myſelf of your friendſhip towards the alle-

viation of my unhappineſs, impoſſible for

me even to communicate its ſource Notice

not, therefore, my deſpondence, my deat
Bethel,

DES MOND. 111

Bethel, its cauſe cannot be removed, and
whatever may be its conſequences, be aſ-
ſured that I deſerve them all—Every word
| write on this ſubject gives me inexpreſſi-
ble pain, and therefore, I know you will
pardon my beſeeching you not to renew the
topic, aſſuring yourſelſ, that if at any
future time, I can properly take advantage
of your counſel, and your friendſhip, there
is not on earth the man to whom 1 would
ſo readily apply. r

I will not, however, in any iſa de-
ceive you. My late accident, my preſent
{tate of health, are neither of them the
cauſe of my remaining abroad The un-
eafineſs I ſuffer is not ſolely on account of
Geraldine, though your laſt: letter has en-
creaſed and rendered almoſt inſupportable
the ſolicitude I feel for her—yet amidſt
all the anguiſh with which my mind dwells
on the calamities that ſurround her, it is
moſt ſoothing and conſolatory to hear from
yourſelf that ſhe has found a friend in you;
and that, being a convert to the united
I power

512. DESMOND.

power of goodneſs, underſtanding, and
beauty, you have been taught by their
invincible attraction, to pity, and even to
approve the attachment you were ſo lately
diſpoſed to condemn: and ridicule, and
which you ſo lately and. undeſervedly gave
me credit for having conquered.

In lodgings: at Sheen, with only her
children with her !— one of the houſes, that
in which ſhe uſed to delight, ſold—the

other, the ancient houſe of her huſband's

family, inhabited by his courtezans, and
his diſſolute companions ! |
Yet amid all this, . inſtead of returning
evil for evil, what is her conduct? —ſhe
goes to a 3 retirement; ſhe is occupied
only in the care of her children; inſtead of
the retaliation which we fee ſo uſually. El
adopted by young and beautiful women,
whoſe huſbands neglect and ill treat them, Da
it ſeems as if her patient ſweetneſs encreaſed
in -proportion to the provocation ſhe re- ng
ceives. Accurſed be he, who ſhall attempt muß
to degrade a character ſo noble, to ſully a
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DESMOND. .. ng.

mind ſo angelic--Never will I be that man
—But if I continue in this ſtrain, I ſhall
get into thoſe regions of heroies, that are,
you ſay, beyond the reach of your reaſon-
able and calm comprehenſion; ſo we will
talk of ſomerhing [elſe ; and in order to
convince you that I can occafionally play
the Mentor, inſtead of being always your
Telemachus, I am going to give you ſome-
thing very like a lecture My dear Bethel,
why do you ſuffer that Sir Robert Stam-
ford to occupy and inflame to reſentment a
mind like your's - When you regret, that
the place where I firſt ſaw Geraldine, 'and
where I have ſo often repeated

« Benedetto fia I giorna, e'l meſe, e Panno
E la ſtagion el tempo, e ora e' puntoz.

E'l bel paeſe, e'l loco ov'io fui giunto

Da duo begli occhi, che legato m'hanno.“

I underſtand all your friendly emotions,
and rejoice that you enter with ſuch en-
thuſiaſm into thoſe feelings which, till

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you were more acquainted with Geraldine,
you treated as romantic puerilities—but

when the fungus growth of this arrogant

upſtart has ſo much ſhare in your indigna-
tion, I am hurt, that the elevated ſpirit of
my friend can be ruffled by a being ſo
utterly contemptible.

« Small things make mean men proud.“

Can you then wonder, that to ſuch a man,

his ſudden, and, as he well knows, his
undeſerved exaltation is matter of oftenta-
tious triumph? but does it make him re-
ſpectable in the world? and does not even
the baſeſt part of that world, while it
courts deſpiſe him? Leave him then, my
friend, to waſte in ſwiniſh exceſs, ſums,
which he has earned by doing dirty work,
at the expence of thoſe who are now called
the ſwiniſh multitude,” hundreds of
whom might be fed by the ſuperfluities d

* Shakeſpeare.
+ Vide Mr, Burke's deſcription of the people.
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DESMOND. ng

his luxurious table—-Leave him to the
wretched adulation of the fawning paraſite,
who can ſtoop to admire his fine places,
and be repaid by the delicacies of his table.
Leave him to be an example of how little
merit is required. in our country to reach
the higheſt poſts of profit and confidence—
an example of a placeman filling uſeleſs
places—of a penſioner paid for the miſchief
he has aſſiſted in doing to the nation, whoſe
governors / have thus rewarded him But
let not our mind, poſſeſſing, as it does, all
the upright principles, the generous inde-
pendence, that once charaCteriſed the
Engliſh gentleman, be diſturbed by the
diſguſting inſolence of ſuch a being, while
you feel, that the humbleſt labourer who
cultivates your ground, is a more honeſt
and a more reſpectable man.

In reading the book you ſent me, which
have yet had only time to do ſuperficially,
I am forcibly ſtruck with truths, that
either were not ſeen before, or were (by
men, who did not wiſh to acknowledge

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116 D ESM ON D.
them) carefully repreſſed; they are blunt-
ly, ſometimes coarſely delivered; but it ig
often impoſſible to refuſe immediate aflent
to thoſe which appear the boldeſt ; impoſ-
fible to deny, that many others have been
acceded to, when they were ſpoken by
men, to whoſe authority we have paid a
kind. of preſcriptive obedience, | though
they now have called forth ſuch clamour
and abuſe againſt the author of “ the
Rights of Man”—My other letters from
England are filled with accounts of the
rage and indignation which this publication
has excited pique myſelf, however, on
having, in my former letter, cited againſt

Burke a ſentence of Locke,. which contra-

dicts as forcibly as Paine has: contradicted
one of his-moſt abſurd poſitions—1 know,

that where ſound: argument fails, abuſive.

declamation is always ſubſtituted, and that

it often ſilences where it cannot convince—

E know too, that where the politics are ob-

noxious, recourſe is always had to perſonal
detraction; I therefore. wonder not, that

On

DESMOND. 117

on your ſide the water, thoſe who are averſe
to the politics of Paine, will declaim in-
ſtead of arguing ; and thoſe who feel the
force of his abilities, will villify his private
life, as if that was any thing to the purpoſe;
| do, however, wonder, that theſe angry
antagoniſts do not recollect, that the cla-
mour they raiſe, ſerves only to prove their
fears; and that if the writings of this man
are, as they would repreſent, deſtitute of
truth and ſound argument, they muſt be
quickly conſigned to contempt and obli- -
vion, and-could neither be-themſelves the
ſubject of alarm, or render their author an

p object of 1nveſtigation and abhorence; but
| the truth is that, whatever may be his pri-
„ie life, (with which I cannot underſtand,
ed | : ]
that the public have any concern) he comes

a5 a political writer, under the deſcription
giren of a controvertiſt by the acute au-
thor, to whom Monſieur Gamen =
lo terrible an averſion. - |
A ton jamais vue un plus aide
bomme ? il expoſe les choſes avec un fide-
3 lite

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118 DES MOND.

lite fi odieuſe; il met ſous les yeux le pour to
& le contre avec un impartialite fi lache; and
il eſt d'un clairte ſi intolerable, qu'il met Cr:
les gens qui n'ont que le ſens commun, tra.
en etat de douter, & meme de juger.*” turt

I frequent no ſociety here willingly, as!
find my mind by no means in a ſtate to at-
tend to the common occurrences of life

without fatigue ; and that both my ſpirits *
and health ſuffer, by the exertion which t
man is obliged to make in company for Wl dogr
which he does not care a ſtraw. However, MM for
as Aſhby had been very obliging to me in fert
bringing my pacquets from Marſeilles, aud obſti
depended on me for introduction here, IM *the:

or the

went with him yeſterday to the houſe of 1
man of ſome conſideration, where there is as

generally the beſt company of the place a: ©vurlc
ſembled, and where there then happened felf a

Vince

* Was there ever ſuch an abominable fellow! Po
he expoſes the truth ſo odiouſly ; he ſets before ou, b
decide

eyes the arguments on both fides with ſuch hornbl
impartiality ; he is ſo intolerably clear and plain, bd ment {
be enables people who have only common ſenſe, to doubt, a y—

even to judge.—V oltaire. |

DESMOND. 119

to be, among many others, French
and Swiſs, two Engliſhmen, one, a Mr
Cranbourne, who has accompanied, in their
travels, ſeveral men of rank, and now is re-
turning to England with a Lord Fording-
bridge, whoſe minority is juſt ended, and
who is returning to England to take his
ſeat in the houſe of peers.

Mr. Cranbourne, who was, I find, bred
to the law, has all that ſupercilious and
dogmatical manner, which an education
for the bar very frequently gives—He
aſſerts with violence, and maintains with >
ind WM obfiinacy ; and though the world doubted
„ either of the profundity of his judgment,
Hor the power of his eloquence, ſo that he
« 8 25 unfeed and unretained during the
. of. WW courſe of thoſe years that he called him-
enel ! <1! 2 counſellor, he is fo perfectly cone
vinced of his eminence in both, that he

lon" WF is on. all occafions, not a pleader, but a
1 decider, and fits ſelf- elected on the judg-

„ ment ſeat, on every occaſion of controver-
{—His travels, without diveſting him of
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120 DE SMO ND.

the querulous aſperity of the bar, have
made him a ſolemn coxcomb in every
other ſcience; and he prides himſelf on
having formed his preſent pupil on his own
model, and declares, that he will make 2
ſuperior figure as an orator in the Britiſh
ſonate.

The boy, who hen thus been taught to
confider himſelf as à miracle of elegance
and erudition, unites the flippant airs of 4
young man * of a certain rank! — with the
ſententious pertneſs of an attorney's clerk

juſt out of his time I found him, on our

entrance, ſtanding in the midſt of a circle,
declaiming againſt the French govern-
ment; and pouring forth a warm eulogium

on Mr. Burke — The ſordling affects an

Italian accent, and to have forgotten
the harſh tones of his native language,
when he deigns to ſpeak it—* Pray,” ſaid
he, © tell me you, who know, what is
this other book—this anſwer to Burke,
that I have been bored with—ſomebody
wanted me to read it, but I had neither

patience

DE SM ON D. 121
patience nor inclination—lt ſeems from the
account other people have given me, to be
very ſeditious; I wonder they don't puniſh
the author, who, they ſay, is quite a low
fort of fellow What does he mean by his
Rights of Man, and his equality ?—What
wretched and dangerous doctrine to diſſemi-
nate among the lazzaroni“ of England,
where they are always ready enough to
murmur againſt their betters? I hope our
government will take care to filence ſuch a
demagogue, before he puts it into the heads.
of Es gens ſans culotes, in England, to do
as they have done in France, and even
beſore he gets ſome of the ragged rogues. -
2 hanged—They rights! poor devilz, Who
have neither ſhirts nor breeches!“ |

Yow have accuſed me of laying by

a in company, even where the converſation
5 has turned on topics that intereſt me moſt.
8 l own I * e ſo . partly from de-

dy 5 Lazzaroni, A word e of * redu-

ner ¶ ced to the utmoſt 7 and wretche: neſs,

C2000 G8 Wunde T
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122 DE'SMOND.
preflion of ſpirits, and partly from the re:
luctance I felt to engage in wordy war”
againſt prejudice and abſurdity.— I now,
however, ventured to enquire- of Lord
Fordingbridge, whether theſe men whom
he called lazzaroni, might not be urged to
revolt by thoſe very miſeries which expoſ.
ed them to his contempt? and "whether
ſuch extreme poverty and wretchednels
did not ſhew the neceſſity of fome alteration
in the government where they exiſted ?—If
government be allowed to be for the bene
fit of the governed, not the governors,
ſurely theſe: complaints ſhould be heard,
c Why, what would you have govern-
ment do?” anſwered he How can it
prevent ſuch fort of things ?-Our's, for
example, againſt which theſe ſtupid dog
are complaining in libellous pamphlets and
papers, by what means can it obviate theſe
diſcontents? Would you have the Mi-
niſter keep a ſlop-ſhop, to ſupply the ſim
eulotes with thoſe neceffaries gratis 5 —
This convincing argument, which the
| ; whole

DESMHON D. 123

whole company applauded with à loud
hugh, gave my tight honourable adver-
ſary ſuch confidence ia his own. powers,
chat, without permitting. me to reply, he
proceeded .. 1 inſiſt upon it, that there 2
is no cauſe of complaint in England: » NS.
body is poor, unleſs it be by their jown
fault; and nobody is oppreſſed ; as do the
common people, the mob, or hatever
you pleaſe to call them; / what were
they born for but to work? And here comes
a fellow and tells them about their rights
They have no fights- they can have none,
but to labour for their ſuperiots, and. if
they are idle, tis their own faults, and not
the fault of the conſtitution, in which
there ate no imperfections, and which can -
not by any contrivance he made better.

* Your lordſhip,” anſwered I, “ whaſe;
comprehenſive mind probably looks for-
ward to the time when you will yourſelf
make one of that illuſtrious body that Mr.
Burke deſcribes as the Corinthian pillar
of poliſhed ſociety, has, 1 dare ſay, in

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124 DE S MOND.
travelling through other countries, made
the government of your own your peculiar
ſtudy, and by contraſting it with thoſe you
have ſeen, you have learned. to appreciate

its value That it js faperior to moſt, per.
haps, to all of them, I am willing to allow,

yet 1 cannot pronounce it to be without

imperfections, where J obſerve ſuch dread-
ful contraſts in the condition of the people
under it Who can! walk through the
ſtreets of London without being ſhocked
with them? — ere, a man; who poſſeſſes
an immenſe income which has been given
him for his ſervile attendance, or his 'venal
voice, an income, which is paid from the
burthenſome impoſis laid en the people, is
ſeen driving along in a ſplendid equipage;
his very "ſervants cloathed in purple and
fine linen, and teſtifying, by their looks,
that they fare ſumptuouſly every day
There, extended on the pavement, lies
one of thoſe very people whoſe labour
has probably contributed to the ſupport of
an nn begging 99 to con-

tinue

DE SMON D. 125

tinue his degraded exiſtence, of the diſguſt-
ed paſſenger, who turns from the ſpecta-
cle of his ſqualid wretchedneſs—In our
daily prints, this ſhocking inequality is
not leſs ſtriking In one paragraph, we are
regaled with an eulogium on the innumera-
ble bleſſings, the. abundant proſperity of
our country; in the next, we read the me-
lancholy and mortifying liſt of numberleſs
unhappy debtors, who, in vain, ſolicit,
from time to time, the mercy of the-legiſ-
ature, and who are left by the powers
who can relieve them, to lipger out their
unprofitable lives, and to periſh, through
penury and diſeaſe, in the moſt” loathſome
confinements, condemned to feel N

1

m—=—* The horrors of a gloomy 1

Unpitied and unheard, where miſery moans;

Where fickneſs pines ; where thirſi and hunger
burn, N

And poor mis fortune, feels the laſh of guilt.““

To-day,. we ſee diſplayed in tinſel pane-
gyric, the ſuperb trappings, the gorgeous

* Thomſon, ad
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—

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* *
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126 DESMON D.
ornaments, the jewels of immenſe value,

with which the illuſtrious perſonages of
our land amaze and delight us—To-mor.

row, we read of a poor man, an ancient
woman, a deſerted child, who were found

2

dead in ſuch or ſuch alleys or ſtreet, * ſup-
poſed to have periſhed through want, and
the inclEmency of the weather ;* and is it

"poſſible to help exclaiming,

ce phyſic pomp—
f Expoſe thyſelf to feel what wretches feel;
So ſhalt thou ſhake the ſuperflux to them,
And ſhew the heavens more juſt.*”

The young peer, who had ſhewn more
patience than I expected, now interrupted
me“ All this is very fine, Sir,” ſaid he,

but give me leave to ſay, that it is all

* Shakeſpeare,

common place declamation, (that was true
enough) and does not go to prove, that
the form of our government is defeEtive—
miſery exiſts every where, and is intended
to exiſt ; even according to your own quo-

tation,

tatio!

n,

DE SM ON D. 127

, And ſhew. the heavens more juſt.

It is heaven ſo decides then, and 15 no
means the fault of governments It is the
ot of humanity, and cannot be changed.”
« Thus it is,“ anſwered I, “that we dare
to arraign our God for the crimes. and fol-
lies of man—that God, who certainly made
none of his creatures to be miſerable, nor
called any into exiſtence only to live pain-
fully, and periſh wretchedly ; but when
the blind ſelfiſhneſs of man diſtributes
what Providence has given; when avarice
xccumulates, and power uſurps, ſome have
ſuperfluities, which contribute nothing to
their happineſs, others hardly enough to
give them the means of a tolerable exiſt-
ence—Were there, indeed, a ſure appeal
to the mercies of the rich, the calamities
of the poor. might be leſs intolerable ;_ but
it is too certain, that high affluence and
proſperity have a direct tendency to harden
the temper. How few do we meet with
G 4 who

128 DES'MON D.

who can feel for miſeries they can.
not imagine, and are ſure they can never
experience How many, who have hearts
ſo indurated by their own fucceſs or for-
tune, that they are inſenſible to generoſity,
and eyentojuſtice?—How many more, who
would, perhaps, be in ſome degree alive
to the ſenſations of humanity, if their
buſineſs, or their pleaſures allowed them
time to think, but who are ſo occupied by
either the one or the other, and ſo little in
the habit of attending to diſagreeable ſub-
jects, that they ſhrink from the detail of
poverty and ſorrow, and would be diſguſt-
ed with thoſe who ſhould attempt to in-
trude with ſuch images
*. On ears polite ?

„ Well, Sir,” cried my lord, in whoſe
hands the reſt of the company continued
to leave an argument in which they
thought he had greatly the adyantage—
% Well, Sir! and what then ? —Have we
not laws, by which our poor are amply,

magnificently provided for?“
: cc That

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DESM ON D. 129
“That they were intended to be ſo, I
believe,“ anſwered. I, << but how thoſe laws

| are perverted, let, the. frequent, the merito-

rious,. but. unſucceſsful attempts to amend
them, bear wirneſs— Their abule ; the
heavineſs with which they pteſs on one
part of the community, without relieving
the other, is one of the greateſt evils we
complain of; but here, as in twenty other
inſtances, , every attempt at redreſs is
filenced by the nol; me taugere,, which our
conſtitution has been made to ſay, and
which has been echoed, without enquiry,
by all who have either intereſt i in preſerv-
ing the inviolability even, of its acknow-
ledged defects, or who have been brought
up in prejudices, that make them believe
that our anceſtors were ſo much wiſer than
we are; that ĩt is a ſort of ſacrilege to doubt
the perfection of the ſtructure they raiſed, „
and to imagine an edifice. of greater
ſtrength and fimplicity—lf theſe prejudices
are enforced and continued—if every at-
tempt to repair what time has injured, or

G 5 amend

% DES MON p.

amend what is acknowledged to be defec.
tive, is oppoſed as dangerous,” and exe-
crated as impious; let us go on till the
building falls upon our heads, and let
thoſe who eſcape the ruins, continue to
| meditate on the prodigious advantage of
this holy reverence, and to boaſt of the hap-
pineſs of being Engliſhmen !”

I ſhould be glad, Sir, ſince you, at
leaſt; ſeem to have none of this reſpect,
faid 'the young lawyer, and who now
_ thought he had been filent long enough
«T ſhould be glad if your ſagacity would
point out ſome of thoſe other defects in
the ſtructure of the Engliſh conſtitution,
which, doubtleſs, you have diſcovered.“
„ Thar is not very difficult,“ I replied,
c and I ſhould' begin by ſaying, that its
very foundation is defective, from the in-
equality of repreſentation ; (were that aſſer-
tion not allowed by every one as an incon-
trovertible truth; and had not there been
ſuch repeated mockeries, ſuch frequently
renewed farces ated, to amuſe us with
| - pretended

D» ES MOND. 131
pretended efforts at a reform, which never
were intended, nor can ever be carried
into effect, but by the unanimous and de-
termined perſeverance of the people) To

drop the metaphor, let me turn to anothet
very common ſubject of acknowledged

complaint I mean the penal laws. laws,

by which the property and the life of the

individual is put on an equal footing, and
by which murder, or a robbery to the
amount of forty ſhillings, are offences
equally puniſhed with death Is it poſſible
to reflect without horror, on the numbers

that are every year executed, while every

year's experience evinces, that this prodi-
gality of life renders the puniſtinient fa-
miliar, and prevents not crimes Is there
a ſeſſion at the Old Bailey, where boys,
from fifteen to twenty are not condemned ?
—boys, who, deſerted from their infancy,
have been driven, by ignorance and want,
to violate the laws of that ſociety, Which

© Shakes her incumbered lap, and throws them out.'*

* Cowper.
a Why

132 DE S MOND.

Why do we boaſt of the mildneſs and hu.
manity of laws, which provides Puniſh-
ment inſtead of prevention? And can we
avoid ſeeing, that while they give up
yearly to the hands of the executioner greater
numbers than die the victims of public
jvſtice in all the other European countries
reckoned together; we muſt, in ſpite of
our national vanity, acknowledge, either,
that the Engliſh are the worſt,” and moſt
unprincipled race of men in Europe, or,
chat their penal laws are the moſt ſanguina-
xy. of thaſe of any nation under heaven.
Attempts have been made to remedy this
enormity, which .I cannot help calling a
national diſgrace z; but, like every other
endeavour at partial correction of. abuſes,
theſe humane efforts have been baffled on
the uſual principle, that nothing muſt be
touched, nothing muſt be changed!
«© Really, Sir,” ſaid Mr. Cranbourne,
« you are a moſt able advocate for beg-
gars and thieves.”
; 925 „ At

DESMOND. 133

«, At leaſt, Sir, I am a diſintereſted
one, for I plead for thoſe who eannot-fee
me—but it is not for beggars and thieves,
as you are pleaſed to ſay, that I plead it
is for the honor of my country—for'the
reform of the laws, which occaſion beggars
and thieves to exiſt in ſuch numbers;
while we oftentatiouſly boaſt, that thoſe
laws are the beſt in the world. Nor is it
only the penal laws that ſeem to want al-

teration ; allow me to obſerve, that from

the continual complaints of the defects of
our law, as it relates to the protection of
property, it does not ſeem to deſerve the
praiſe of ſuperiority which we arrogantly
claim We hear every day of ſuits in
which even ſucceſs is ruin; and we know,
tbat far from being able to obtain in our
courts, that ſpeedy, clear, deciſive, and
impartial juſtice, which, from their inſti-
tution they are deſigned to give, a victory
(obtained, after being ſent through them
all), is often much worſe than a retreat
the remedy more fatal than the diſeaſe—

So

134 DESMOND.

So conſcious are even the lawyers them.
ſelves of this, that if one of them (ay
may happen) has a perſonal regard for his
client, and is willing to wave pecuniary
advantage in his favor, ſuch a lawyer will
ſay—* Do any thing—ſubmit to any com-
promiſe—put up with any loſs, rather
than go to law”—One of our courts i;
called that of Equity, where the widow,
the orphan, the deſerted and unhappy of
every deſcription, (who have money) are
to find protection and redreſs ; yet it is too
certain, that ſuch are the delays, ſuch the
expences in this court, that the ruinous
tediouſneſs of a Chancery ſuit is become
proverbial—the oppreſſed may periſh, be-
fore they can obtain the remedy they ſeek;
and where, under the direction of this
court, litigated property 1s to be divided,
it continually happens, that, by the time
a deciſion is obtained, there is nothing to
divide—The poet I juſt now quoted, lays,

© In this rank age, |
Much is the patriot's weeding hand required“. T

2 Thomſon.

DESMON D. 135
„ But alas !—eſpecial care is taken, that

n neither reaſon nor patriotiſm ſhall touch too 5
15 rudely ö
J © The toils of law, where dark, inſidious men,

Il Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth,

1» And lengthen ſimple juſtice into trade.“

.

16 And yet

7 6 How glorious were the day that ſaw theſe broke,

of And every man within the reach of rigbt.

© As to your poets,” cried Mr. Cran-
bourne ſaperciliouſly—* There is no bring -
ing argument againſt their flowery declas
mation ; fine ſounding words about rights
and liberties, are impoſing to ſuperficial
underſtandings, but cannot convince others
—fine flouriſhing words are not arguments.“
; © Nor does there,” ſaid I, ©* need ar-
' WH guinents, on what I have afferted—they

ne
o are matters of fact, and not of ſpecula-
„ on or opinion truths, which cannot be
: 255 | |
| * Thomſon.

+ Ibid,

denied,

136 D E S MON. D.
denied, and which it 7 requiro ſome
{11 to palliate.“

As to truth, Sir, it i is not always pro-
per to ſpeak i it, nay, it is not always fafe
to the well- being of a ſtate The quellion,
I think is, not — —.— a thing be exactly
conformable to your Utopian and impracti.
cable ſchemes, but whether it be expe-
dient—We. know that truth is not expe-
dient, and that it is the buſineſs of govern-
ment to enforce obedience, without which
it would not go'on; not to liſten to the
reaſoning of every wild dogmatiſt, who
fancies himſelf a philoſopher, and able to
mend what is already good—all ſuch
ſhould be prevented from difſeminating
their pernicious doctrines, which ſerve
only to make men diſcontent with their
fituation, to raiſe murmurs, and to clog
the wheels of government.”

This ſentence, which was moſt conſe-
quentially delivered, was applauded by
all the party, as I had nothing to offer
againſt it, but that truth which bad juſt

been

beer
eline
1s ne
calli
ſtoo«
and

oil,

cum
not

ſon,
ſtifle
ſuch
Let

to di
dare
reaſc
peſte
lary

ſupe
dulg
tem|
mon
very (

DESMOND. 137

been pronounced to be inexpedient; I de-
clined the conteſt, ſaying only, If truth
is not to be ſpoken, Sir, in a government,
calling itſelf free, leaſt it ſhould be under-
ſtood by the people, who are governed;

and prevent their freely ſupplying the
oil, that facilitates the movement of the
cumbrous machine If facts, which can-
not be denied, be repreſſed; and rea-
ſon, which cannot be controverted, be
ſtifled; the time is not far diſtant, when
ſuch a country may ſay, adieu liberty.
Let them, therefore, if they are content
to do ſo, begin with expelling thoſe who
dare ſpeak truth, and are fo impudentas to
realon—* Tous ces gens qui raiſon ſont la
peſte d'un etat. ““ 1 then left my adver-
lary to enjoy the triumph of his 1 imaginary
ſuperiority, and wandered away alone, in-
dulging contemplations, mournful con-
templations, on far other ſubjects.— The
moment I am in ſolitude, the image of

Voltaire —“ All theſe reaſoning people are the
very curſes of a government.”

Geraldipe -

*

But I am ſo poor at diſſimulation, that the
pain of attempting it, is more haraſſing

and remember as he wiſhes to be remem-

133 DESMOND.

Geraldine in diſtreſs, Geraldine contending
with irremediable misfortunes, recurs to
me; and other ſubjects of regret, add bit.
terneſs to my reflections; perhaps, there.
fore, I ſhould do wiſely, to mix more in
ſociety, where I muſt, of courſe

© Diſguiſe the thing I am,
By ſeeming otherwiſe.

than the thoughts I would fly from.
Write to me very frequently, my friend;

Your's ever, moſt affectionately,

LIONEL DESMOND.

LET:

DESMOND. 139
LETTER XI

TO MRS. VERNE X.

Bath, April 20, 1791.

I AM not ſurpriſed, my dear ſiſter,
but I am very ſorry you have had a viſit
from your huſband, and his foreign and
Englilh companions I foreſee no poſſible
good that can ariſe from it, though I will
not affect ſo much preſcience as to point out
exactly the evils I apprehend; one of
which, however, you muſt yourſelf ſee, I
mean the expences that Verney will be
drawn into to give himſelf conſequence
among theſe, his new friends; but, per-
haps, he may be content to exhibit his
Yorkſhire-houſe, with ſome of the inhabi-
tants he had lately there, to do its honors,
and may ſpare you, notwithſtanding what
he ſaid about your going down thither
Believe me, I would not have named this

circum-

140 DESMOND.

circumſtance, as you have ſo often reproved

me for ſpeaking with aſperity of Verney, «106
could I have ſuppoſed it poſſible that you *
can be ignorant of the party who were fo wy
lately coll ected there, or of the real reaſon tury-
which made him oppoſe your going thi. 29
ther with your children, when the country "HP
was pronounced abſolutely neceſſary for how
you by your phyſicians ; forgive me, pray, 15
if I thus renew diſagreeable recollections, Ach.
but I do not love you ſhould now go wher, debts
ſuch people held ſo lately their profligae ber e]
ſocieties— l do not love that my Geraldine lerle
ſhould appear a neglected. and unbappy rerha
wife, preſiding in the ſame ſcenes that lo mp
recently witneſſed the orgies, of Verney, my n
Scarſdale, Deybourne, and New minſter, bility
with abandoned proſtitures—Shall 1 g WY...
Farther, and add, that I do not. love my Ls
Geraldine ſhould be where Scarſdale is i *
all- you have often yourſelf obſerved hi prope
behaviour; and, as he knows. your gange forgix
Fail to underſtand it, ſurely it is inco0- uf

ültent with your character to allow him an
oppot-

uon I

DESMOND. I41
opportunity of repeating it; do not go to
Moorſly Park, my fiſter, if you can avoid
it; and if it cannot otherwiſe be evaded,
without a violation of what you think your
dury—obedience! unqualified obedience!
-I will contrive, that my mother ſhall
make a point of your coming hither ; a
requeſt which Verney will not refuſe, |
fince he believes that he owes to her the
diſcharge of thoſe: two. moſt troubleſome

te ¶ debts; (though it certainly was not by
ber they were diſchirged) nor, wete- ſome
me utile gratit ude out of the queſtion, (which,
d berbaps, with him it might be,) would he,
0 however impolitic he is, hazard offending.
ay mother, while he feels the daily proba-
le bility of his being under the e ys |
4 aking other pecuniary favors. '

Let me hear, by an early poſt, that you
determine on this, or ſome other equally! |
proper ſcheme—Again let me ' aſk your
forgiveneſs, if I have ſaid too much, and 1
entreat you to impute it to the tender N
won I bear you, Which is, you know, in-
2 | herent,

142 DESMOND.

herent, and has grown up with me from pan
my firſt conſciouſneſs of exiſtence— Alas! (po:
if 1 did not love you, what elſe ſhould I vou
have to love in the world? My other ſiſter one,
is fo much older, that I have always had
my affection for her, © chaſtiſed by fear,”
and ſhe is now afar off, and time and dif.
tance are cruel enemies, even to the tics
of blood My brother I—alas ! does he
care for any of us, and is it | poſſible to
waſte ones affection on apathy and indeci-
ſion ?—My mother! I truſt, 1 venerate
and regard her, as my only parent; |
think myſelf indebted to her for the trou-
ble ſhe has taken during my infancy and my
childhood, and for that portion of regard
which ſhe is able to ſpare me (fince I be-
lieve the affections are involuntary) from
her ſon; but I have felt too much awe, to
be ſenſible towards her, of that ſympathe-
tic and gentle afſection which unites me to
you to you, my Geraldine, whoſe ſoſt
temper is ever ready, even amidſt your
friendly chidings, to plead for your flip

pant

rant Fanny, while Ber heart finds te-
(pondent ſentiments only in your Ah!
would to heaven I dared entruſt you with
one, Which is— but no: you have too
many troubles of your awn—Neyer, ne-
ver, may your tenderneſs for me add to
their number. |
Your uneaſineſs hoe * * is
now, I hope, relieved, at leaſt: ſo far a8
to depends on knowing where he is My
ci- Wl mother, however, is ſo far from feeling
ate Wi berſelf contented at the accounts he has
(et her of his journey to the Archipelago,
ou if 2nd his Grecian importations, that ſhe is,
my if poſſible, more uneaſy and more reſtleſs
ard Wi than ſhe has been ſince bis abſence; for
be- WJ my part, I think he is quite as well at Ve-
rom vice, with his Cypriot, as he would be at
| Paris, or in London, with any connection
of the ſame ſort, that he might form at
either of thoſe places; and certainly ve
have much leſs reafon to be diffatisfied,
than if he had added to our family allian-
S423 566 By: ces,

„ DES MOND

ces, by a union with that of the illuſtrious pl
houſe of St. Ely. pr
That name bee EA or n am
to the end of my pen, another name, I f
mean, that of Deſmond. His uncle,
who! is ſtill here, is grown quite coy upon
that ſubject, though willing enough to
talk to me upon any other; or if J conti-
nue, at any time, to oblige him to ſpeak
upot it, his anſwers are peeviſh; ſhort, aud
unſatis factory I proteſt I am balf in-
clined to believe the venerable veteran is
in love with me himſelf, and is jealous of
my grateful recollection of bis nephew—
Ob! how I ſhould be delighted to have
the power of teizing this old petri faction.
But, alas! my dear ſiſter, is all exerted in
vain; the heart of the Major is compoſed
of ſuch impenetrable / ſtuff, that, I believe,
there is no plaguing him any way.
Now do 1 long to tell you a little of
what is paſſing here; but, I Know, the
golfp of this place is rather irkſome than
L TROY

DE SMO N D. 146

pleaſing to you; and I am often rather re-
proved than thanked, for endeavouring to
amuſe you with the events, real or ima-
ginary, which occupy us here, and gives
us the requiſite ſupplies of converſation for
che tea and card parties; but, indeed, my
Geraldine, if you deprive me, by your
rigid averſion to what you call detraction,
of ſuch a reſource, I know not what there
will remain for me to write about, and to
fill thoſe long letters which alone ſatisfy
vou; I muſt not ſay much of any of our
own family, becauſe you ſay it is pert, and
undutiful, and I know not what; if I
could repeat only good of the people I am
among, you would let. me fill quires of
paper about them; but, as it is, if I re-
port only what I hear, you accuſe me of
being as ſpitefully ſcandalous as the dowa -

gers, who fit in tremendous committees on

the reputations of the week Lou know,

never am allowed to converſe with any of
the literary people I meet, as my mother

bas a terrible averſion to every thing that

Vo I. II. H looks

- 7
TE "IP 9
* l n

146 DESMON D.

looks like a defire to acquire knowledge;
and for the ſame reaſon, ſhe proſcribes
every ſpecies of reading, and murmur,

when ſhe cannot abſolutely prohibit the

faſhionable, infipid novel.

There is ſo much enquiry of the ſage,
matronly gentlewomen of her acquaint-
ance, who are, as ſhe believes, deep in
the ſecret, as to what books are proper,
who are the authors, and whether there be
«© any offence in them ;” that, by the
time theſe voices are collected, I find,
more than half I propoſe reading, ablo-
lutely forbidden—Novels, it is decided,
convey the poiſon of bad example 1n the
ſoft ſemblance of refined ſentiment—One
contains an oblique apology for ſuicide;
a ſecond, a lurking palliation of conjugal
infidelity ; a third, a ſneer againſt parental
authority ; and a fourth, againſt religion;
ſome are diſliked for doctrines, which,
probably, malice only, aſſuming the gar
of wiſdom, can diſcover in. them; and

others, becauſe their writers have either,
in

DESMOND. 147

in their private, or political life, given
offence to the prudery, or the party of
ſome of theſe worthy perſonages, whom
my mother, relying on their reputation
for ſanctity and ſagacity, chuſes to con-
ſult ; and thus I am reduced to practiſe the
fineſſe of a boarding-ſchool miſs, and to
hide theſe objectionable pages, from an
inquiſition not leſs ſevere than that which
the lovely Serena* ſuſtained, or I muſt
confine myſelf to ſuch mawkiſh reading as
is produced, “' ina rivulet of text running
through a meadow of margin,” in the ſoft
ſemblance of letters, “ from Miſs: Eve-
rilda Evelyn, to Miſs Victorina Villars“
How then, my ſiſter, am I to find any
thing to ſay but of living characters? or
how can I help being ſatirical againſt
thoſe who will not let me be ſentimental ?
-I might, indeed, read | hiſtory ; but
whenever I attempt to do ſo, I am to tell you
the truth, driven from it by diſguſt—

Triumphs of temper. |
H 2 What

148 PE SMON D.

What is it, but a miſerably mortifying de.
tail of crimes and follies ?—of the guilt
of a few, and the ſufferings of many,
while almoſt every page offers an argu-
ment in favor of what I never will believe
that heaven created the human race only
to deſtroy itſelf; and that in placing the
various ſpecies of it, in various climates,
whence they acquired various complexions,
Habits, and languages; their | Creator
meant theſe men ſhould become the natu-
ral enemies of each other, and apply the
various portions of reaſon he has allotted
them, only in ſtudying how to annoy and
murder each other.
But Iam wandering, in my wild way,
from the point; and, in my complaints,
that the pretty, ſoothing tales of imagina-
tion are prohibited, while the hideous re-
alities of human life affright me, I had
nearly forgotten what I was going to ſay,
which is not at all ſcandalous—Oh no!
it is, on the contrary, an event at which
you will rejoice—Your old friend, Miss
5 Elford,

lich
Hiss
Ord,

DESMON D. 149

Elford, has, at laſt, met with a lover,
who really purpoſes to become her huſ-
band—He is a phyſician ; very well look-
ing, and twelve or fourteen years younger
than herſelf—She is in love! —Oh! unde-
(cribably in love And the Doctor foreſees,
in her extenſive connexions, advantages
likely to ariſe to him in his profeſſion, that
will, he thinks, more than counterbalance
the trifling wants of fortune, beauty, and
youth—I dare not paint to you the ndicu-
lous love ſcenes that this tender pair ex-
hibit— Lou have ſeen Miſs Elford in love
once before, and can, perhaps, imagine
how ſhe expreſſes now a ſtill more ardent
paſſion ; and with what airs of antiquated
coquetry ſhe recalls the Doctor to his alle-
giance, if, peradventure, ſhe detects his
eyes wandering towards any of the younger
and handſomer part of the company—The
idea here is, that they are to be married
very ſoon, and I really wiſh they may, if
it be only in the hope, that Miſs Elford,
in having a huſband of her own, will be ſo
H 3 engaged

=
.
Ps
IX
2
by
: 1
*
=
3
8

148 D ESM ON D.

What is it, but a miſerably mortifying de.
tail of crimes and follies ?—of the guilt
of a few, and the ſufferings of many,
while almoſt every page offers an argu-
ment in favor of what I never will believe
—that heaven created the human race only
to deſtroy itſelf; and that in placing the
various ſpecies of it, in various climates,
whence they acquired various complexions,
Habits, and languages; their Creator
meant theſe men ſhould become the natu-
ral enemies of each other, and apply the
various portions of reaſon he has allotted
them, only in ſtudy ing how to annoy and
murder each other.
But I am wandering, in my wild way,
from the point; and, in my complaints,
that the pretty, ſoothing tales of imagina-
tion are prohibited, while the hideous re-
alities of human life affright me, I had
nearly forgotten what I was going to ſay,
which is not at all ſcandalous—Oh no
it is, on the contrary, an event at which
you will rejoice—Your old friend, Mis
5 Elford,

DESMON D. 149

Elford, has, at laſt, met with a lover,
who really purpoſes to become her huſ-
hand—He is a phyſician ; very well look-
ing, and twelve or fourteen years younger
than herſelf—She is in love! — Oh! unde-
(cribably in love And the Doctor foreſees,
in her extenſive connexions, advantages
likely to ariſe to him in his profeſſion, that
will, he thinks, more than counterbalance
the trifling wants of fortune, beauty, and
vouth l dare not paint to you the ndicu-
lous love ſcenes that this tender pair ex-
hibit— Lou have ſeen Miſs Elford in love
once before, and can, perhaps, imagine
how ſhe expreſſes now a ſtill more ardent
paſſion ; and with what airs of antiquated
coquetry ſhe recalls the Doctor to his alle-
glance, if, peradventure, ſhe detects his
eyes wandering towards any of the younger
and handſomer part of the company—The
idea here is, that they are to be married
very ſoon, and I really wiſh they may, if
it be only in the hope, that Miſs Elford,
in having a huſband of her own, will be ſo
H 3 engaged

150 DESMOND.
engaged by her own unexpected good for. no

tune, as to let the reſt of the world remain ſo
for ſome time unmoleſted. I cannot help t0
it, my dear ſiſter, if, in deſpite of your ye
gentle admonitions, I do hate this little, qu

ſhrivelled, ſatirical Sybil—It was from Ve
her, I find, that the hiſtory of my bro- ne

ther's adventures with the St. Eloy family an
got abroad here, with numberleſs addi- he
tional circumſtances that never happened; th

and it is of her, that my mother learned ne
what I wiſhed to conceal from her, the
parties that Verney lately had in Yorkſlure,
Oh! if you could have heard how ſhe
canted about her dear, her amiable Mr,
Verney;“ while ſhe could not diſguiſe the
pleaſure ſhe took in deſcribing your hul-
band's foibles—you would have been con-
vinced of what I always told you; that
under uncomraon hypocricy, ſhe conceals WI mi
uncommon malignity—As to myſelf, | je
find ſhe goes about talking of me in ſuc WM ch;
terins as theſe : Did you ſee dear Miß yo

Waverly at the ball laſt night ?—Was ne mi
| | not

*

DE SM ON. TY

not charming I think ſhe never looked
ſo well; and really I begin to be a convert
to the opinion of thoſe, who ſaid, laſt
year, when ſhe firſt came out, that ſhe was
quite as handſome as her ſecond ſiſter, Mrs.
Verney, the celebrated beauty Mrs. Ver-
ney, poor, dear creature !—(I have an
amazing regard for her, and have loved
her from our childhood, though ſhe is two or
three years younger than Iam!) Mrs. Ver-
ney is a little altered, though ſtill ſo very
young—Poor thing !—troubles, like her's,
are great enemies to beauty, which is but
as the flower of the morning ; but however
ſhe may be changed in appearance, ſhe is
ſtill moſt amiable—indeed, more ſo, as to
gentleneſs of temper, than Miſs Waverly,
though /he is a ſweet girl, and has no fault,
except, perhaps, a little, a very little too
much vivacity, which, it is the great ob-
ject of my worthy friend, her mother, to
check ; judging, indeed, very truly, that a
young perſon, ſo much followed and ad-
mired, cannot be too reſerved and eau-

H 4 tious.“

- - * P Jo * *
> ANCE SEY

152 DESMON D.

. tious.” —Yes | and, in conſequence of this

impertinent opinion, this odious tabby
(who ſays ſhe is only @ year or two younger
than you, though ſhe will never ſee forty
again) has made my mother fo full of fears

and precautions, that I am neither to read
any books but thoſe that are ordered by the

Divan, of which ſhe 1s deputy chair-
woman, or to ſpeak to any men but old
fograms, ſuch as Major Danby ; or men of
large fortune—>My mother need not be ſo
apprehenſive; firſt, becauſe I have not
the leaſt inclination to ſet out for Scotland
with any of the infignificant butterflies,
whom I like well enough to have flutter
about me in public; and ſecondly, becauſe,
if I had ſuch a fancy, there is not one of
them who has the leaſt notion of marrying
a young woman without a fortune, or with
a very ſmall one—Even the fortunate be-
ings who are not proſcribed, men who
can make a ſettlement, have, for the moſi
part, but little inclination to encumber
themſelves with a portionleſs wife; and

among

DESMOND. 153

Us among them all, I know none who anſwer
by my ideas of what a man ought to be—
er Alas! there is but one in the world whom
ty I ſhould ſelect as the hero of my Romance,
rs if I were in haſte to make one.

ad But you muſt give me leave to' deteſt
he Miſs Elford a little; though, indeed, 1
ür. have not in my heart room for many other
ld ſentiments than thoſe of anxiety and ten-
of derneſs for you, my dear Geraldine.

$f) Write ſoon, and explicitly, of your inten-
tions, to 85

Your alleRtionnte and f

:,
.

FANNY WAVERLY.

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154 DESMON D.

LETTER XII.

Seymour Street, 27th April, 1791.

- YES! my ſiſter, I knew of the way in
which Mr. Verney lived when he was laſt
in Yorkſhire, though I never mentioned
it, and had ſome hope it might have eſcap-
ed my mother's knowledge and your's—
Alas! Fanny! I cannot be ignorant, how-
ever I defire to appear ſo, of the extreme
bitterneſs of the lot to which I am con-
demned ; but while you love me—while my
charming children are well—while my
mother thinks of me with ſome intereſt—
and let me add, while I have a few friends,
whoſe regard is ſo well worth poſſeſſing,
I will not fink under it ; but will ſupport
myſelf by the reflexion, that I do my
duty, and, at leaſt, deſerve a better fate—
I now haſten to the other parts of your let.
ter—Y ou will ſee, by the date of this, that

Tl am returned to London—and you well
| know

D ESM ON D. 155

know how much againſt my inclination— |
However, it was thought better than go- «
ing into Yorkſhire ; and fortunately for q
me, the Duc de Romagnecourt, who 1s
become Mr. Verney's moſt intimate friend,

in diſcovered, that he had no inclination to
aft go at this ſeaſon into ſo remote a part of
ed England However, Mr. Verney deter-
p- mines to entertain him here in a ſtyle
— which may do honor to his hoſpitality;
W and as frequent dinners are to be given, and
me the Duke profeſſes himſelf diffatisfied;.
on- even with the moſt luxurious table, Where

ladies do not preſide, I have been compel-
led to quit my quiet lodging, and am to
remain here till — indeed, I know not
till when, for Mr. Verney is as unſettled in
his plans, even as my poor brother him-
ſelf, and without the docility which Wa-
verly has, who will generally allow ſome i
other perſon to. decide for him, and then a
believes, for a few hours, that he has fol- 1
lowed his own inclination. . SON

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All you ſay about Col. Scarſdale is very
true — It is impoſſible not to fee, however
I have endeavoured to miſunderſtand him;

that his pretended friendſhip for Verney,

does not prevent his forming defigns,
which you may affure yourſelf, excite only
my contempt, and add abhorrence of his
principles to perſonal averfion—I now ſee
a great deal more of him than I do of Mr.
Verney; for though we have apparently
inhabited the ſame houſe theſe three days,
we have met only once, even-at table, and
that was yeſterday, when a magnificent
dinner was given to his friends Col.
Scarſdale, however, is very obligingly
willing not to confign me to ſolitude;
but, fince he is always admitted by Mr,
Verney's direction, and knows I am never
out, he takes the opportunity of faunter-
ing up to my dreffing-room, where he
plays with the children, picks up my
thread-paper, inſiſts upon bringing me nev
muſic, and on reading to me ſome novel

or

DES MOND. 197

or poem, with which he is generally fur-
niſhed - If coldneſs, and apparent diſguſt,
could have put an end to attendance ſo
improper, and ſo uneaſy to me, it certainly
would not have continued beyond the ſe-
cond morning, but to-day is the third, on
which, in deſpite of myſelf, I ſhall pro-
bably be condemned to endure it He a-
ſects extreme uneaſineſs at the ſtate of
Verney's affairs, (though, till lately, he
has endeavoured to laugh off my ſolicitude
about them, whenever I ventured to ex-
preſs it) and has given ſeveral intimations,
that his friend has formed an attachment
to ſome expenſive woman—hints, that I
determine never to underſtand—But, when
I thus evade the ſubject I wiſh not to hear
of, he fighs, walks about the room, and,
as if unable to repreſs his emotions, cries,
4 I love Verney from my ſoul ; but, in
this inſtance, I cannot excuſe him, though
I pity him, for being fo inſenſible of his
own happineſs I believe he is the only
man in England who has ſo little taſte.”
This,

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158 DESMOND.

This, they ſay, is ſuch a common fneſ,
and has been uſed ſo often, that J rather
wonder the Colonel, who piques himſelf
on his peculiar talents in gallantry, has
not recourſe to ſome leſs hackneyed expe.
dient—I muſt put an end to ſuch ſort of
converſation, however, though I do not
know how to do it; as my ſpeaking to
Verney, (if he did not laugh at it, as he
probably would) might be attended with
unpleaſant conſequences. To-morrow the
whole party dine here again; and J have
promiſed Mr. Verney to go to Ranelagh
with them, and Miſs Ayton, who is fo
good as to come to me whenever theſe en-
gagements are made, that I may not be
the only woman Oh! my Fanny, would
you were with me Nothing could ſo
ſoothe my ſufferings, as having you, to
whom I might weep at night, when I have
been compelled to conceal all day under
affected tranquillity, the anguiſh of a
breaking heart—I ſhall own to you, my

dear ſiſter, that notwithſtanding the reſo-

lutions

ti

Nt
el

DESMOND iQ.

tions I made at the beginning of my letter,
to be patient and tranquil, there are mo-
ments, when I moſt fincerely wiſh that I
and my babies were all dead together—
What will become of us If, as I greatly
fear, there will ſoon be nothing left but
my ſettlement, between their father and

utter ruin—lIf it ever does come to that,

of which, from the hints dropped by
Scarſdale, I expect every day to hear, I
ſhall, if L have any ſuch power, give it up
to him, for I cannot bear his diſtreſa,
while I have the means of relieving it
However, perhaps, it may not be ſo bad
as Scarſdale; with ſome very unworthy
view of his own, ſeems inclined to repre-
ſent it But, from him, I have heard of
ſuch loſſes at play upon the turf, and in
bets of other ſorts, that if only half of
what he ſays be true, it is impoſſible this
poor infatuated man can go on long—I
need not ſay how greatly his expences are
encreaſed by the preſent ſet of acquaint-
ance he has got into— have ſpoken of it

4 to.

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106 DESMOND.

to him at the only moment I had an op.
portunity, and his anſwer was—** Pooh
don't give yourſelf any concern about that

Il know what I am about, and ſhall take

care to be no loſer, but very much other-
wiſe,” — This, I ſuppoſe, meant, that he
doubted not his ſucceſs at play againſt the
French noblemen, two of whom. are men
of very large fortune—But how. degrading
is ſuch a ſcheme !—how unworthy of a

man profeſſing any honor or principle!
Enough, my Fanny, perhaps too much on

this cruel topic—I will try to talk of other
things.
I cannot help ſmiling at your account of

my old acquaintance Miſs Elford, whom I

have heartily forgiven, not only for the
ſtories ſhe once ſent forth about Mr. Mul-
grave, which I never knew ſhe had done

till lately; but for the little air of triumph

ſhe affumes in relating, that poor, dear
Mrs. Verney 1s already altered in her ap-
pearance, though ſo young !”—Ah l it is
very true, indeed, my love—I not only

forgive

DESMON D. 161
forgive her, but am really very glad ſhe is
at length likely to enter happily into that
ſtate which has always been the great ob»
ject of her laudable ambition—She- will
now, 1 truſt, bear leſs enmity towards her
young married friends, (how ſeldom; alas!
the objects of well-founded envy) or to-
wards thoſe whoſe youth and charms ſeem-
ed to give them a chance which ſhe herſelf
deſpaired of—I wiſh, however, ſhe would
not beſet my mother with ſtories of Mr.
Verney, which ſerve only to make her un-
eaſy, without producing any benefit to us.

You fay, that my mother certainly did
not pay off thoſe two debts that ſo fadly
diſtreſſed us five months ago Who then
could it be? Since I have been convinced
it was none of my own family, I have
been, I own, very ſolicitous to diſcover to
whom ſuch an obligation is owing; and in
the indiſcretion of my curiofity, I have
applied to Col. Scarſdale, who, without
directly afferting it, has given ſuch an-
ſwers, as would (if I did not believe him

incapable

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162 DES MOND.

incapable of ſuch an action, even from 5.
tereſted motives) have led me to imagine it
might be himſelf - Surely this cannot be}

—] wiſh it were poſſible to know. |
You aſk me, my Fanny, after Mr. Def.

"mond—Alas ! I know nothing ſatisfaCtory
of him; and have ſometimes been ſo anxi.
"ous to hear of him, as to think of writing
to Mr. Bethel—Yet a fear of its having x
fingular and improper appearance, has al.

ways deterred me. What is your fecret,
my dear ſiſter, which you will not commu-
nicate, leaſt it ſhould add to my troubles?
— Does it, as I gueſs,. relate to Deſmond?

—Oh ! how happy, how enviable, would

the lot of that woman be, who, inſpiring
fuch a man with eſteem and atffection,
thould be at liberty to return it—Need |
fay, that it is the wiſh of my heart, my
Fanny, might be that fortunate creature;
yet, let me not aſſiſt in cheriſhing an hope

that may ſerve only to embitter her life—

F have heard it hinted, (bur it is long fince,
and, perhaps, came from no very good ar
thority)

DE SMON D. 163

thority) that he is already attached, with
the moſt ardent affection, to that Madame

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he? de Boiſbelle, who ſo aſſiduouſly attended

num in bis illneſs ; and that his continuing ſo
Del. long abroad, is owing to his unwillingneſs
tory Ml 0 leave her have collected this intelli-
nx. gence partly from Col. Scarſdale, who has
iting ſome correſpondence abroad, and partly
no 2 from my ſervant Manwaring, whoſe: huſ-
« band is an old friend of Warham's, Ms.
cret, Deſmond's ſervant, and now and then has
imu— letter from him Upon putting all the

es) circumſtances together, I am compelled
ond: o give that credit to their united evidence,
ond hich 1 ſhould not have given to the Co-
ring lonel alone, who ſeemed to triumph migh-
tion, diy in being able to relate, that my excel-
eed ent and virtuous friend, as he ſneeringly
my calls Deſmond, is entangled in an adven-
ture; ure with a married woman—Perhaps,
hope however, this is all the invention of
He- alice, or the painting of ignorance - Ma-

ſince, lee, that will not allow it probable mere
4 av friendſhiꝑ ſhould exiſt between two perſons
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164 DESMOND.

of different ſexes; and grofs ignorance,
that cannot imagine it poſhble—May heaven
bleſs Deſmond, whatever are his proſpectz
and connexions ! and may he be as happy az
he deſerves to be !—1 feel, too ſenſibly, the
weight of our obligation to him whenever
his name 1s mentioned, whenever I think
of him—Perhaps, I feel it the more, be.
cauſe (you only excepted) none of my fa.

mily ſeem to feel it at all—My brother, 1

fear, never writes to him; and has pro-
bably committed ollies as great, though
not ſo irretrievabl :, as thoſe from which
Deſmond delivered him.— Mr. Verney 1
continually making Deſmond's quixotiſm
the ſubject of his ridicule ; (a talent which
he manages generally ſo as to attract ridi-
cule himſelf) and my mother ſeems rather
ſorry that Deſmond is wiſer than her ſon,
than obliged to him for having exerted
that wiſdom in his behalf How long,
my dear Fanny, has your reading been
under proſcription ?—We uſed to read
what we would, when we were girls toge'

ther,

DESM ON D. 165

ce, Wl her, and I never found it was prejudicial
[en Wl © either of us; but my mother ſeems to
bare been liſtening (notwithſtanding her
Aike of women's knowledge) to ſome of
thoſe good ladies, who, by dint of a tole-
cable memory, and being accuſtomed to
fociate with men of letters, have collect -
ed ſome phraſes and remarks, which they
retail in leſs enlightened ſocieties, and im-
mediately obtain credit for an uncommon
ſhare of penetration and ſcience—But if
every work of fancy is to be prohibited in
which a tale is told, or an example brought
forward, by which ſome of theſe ladies
ſuppoſe, that the errors of youth may be
palliated, or the imagination awakened
know no book of amuſement that can
ſcape their cenſure; and the whole pha»
x of novels, from the two firſt of our
aſſics, in that line of writing, Richardſon
nd Fielding, to the leſs exceptionable,
tough certainly leſs attractive inventors
f the preſent day, muſt be condemneg]}
th leſs mercy, than the curate and the
barber

— — — —

166 DESMOND.

barber ſhewed to the collection of the

Knight of the ſorrowful Countenance; and Ml
then, I really know not what young peo. ll ©
ple (I mean young women) will read a Md
all But let me aſk theſe ſevere female cen. fe
fors, whether, in every well-written novel, n
vice, and even zocakneſſes, that deſerve not Wl ©
quite ſo harſh a name, are not exhibited, in
as ſubjecting thdſe who are examples of Ml i
them, to .remorſe, regret, and puniſh- exe
ment And fince circumſtances, more ini- Vas
mical to innocence, are every day related, i
without any diſguiſe, or with very little,
in the public prints; ſince, in reading the
world, a girl muſt ſee a thouſand very
ugly blots, which frequently paſs without
any cenſure at al- own, I cannot imi-
gine, that novel reading, can, as has been
alledged, corrupt the imagination, or ener

vate the heart; at leaſt, ſuch a/deſcriptionW'ng

of novels, as thoſe which repreſent humanWiovin
life nearly as it is; for, as to others, tholgWanid
wild and abſurd writings, that deſcribe inWieecy

inflated language, beings, that never welt
no

D ESM ON D. 157
he vor ever will be, they can (if any young
voman has ſo little patience and taſte as to
cad them) no more contribute to form the
character of her mind, than the groteſqu
fgures of ſhepherdeſſes, on French fans

and Bergamot boxes, gan form her taſte in
dels Who could, for a moment, feel any

and
de-
d at
cen-
wel,
> not

ited, ¶ inpreſſion from the peruſal of ſuch Ruff as
es bis, though every diurnal print puffed its
min- WM excellence, and every petit maitre (wore it

e ini

vas quite the thing —ex £xquiſite—pathetic

ated, BY —intereſting DENY

little, © The . the ſoft, the tender

g the Ipaigenia, cloſed not, during the tedious”
ven ours, her beauteous eyes, while the glo-

ithourous flambeau of ſilver. ſlippered day ſunk

im-. beneath the encrimſoned couch of coral-

$ been owned Thetis, giving up the dormant

r ener vorld to the raven-embrace of all o'ercloud-
riptionO'g night—When, however, the matin
bumaWring lark, or ruſſet pinions, floating

„ hol =mid the riffany clouds, that variegated, in
-ribe ¶ ¶leecy undulation, the grey-inveſted hea-
er were hailed with his ſoul-reviving note,

no the

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168 DESMOND.

the radient countenance of returning morn;
the ſweet, the mild, the elegantly un-
happy maid, turned towards the roſeate.
ſtreaming Eaſt, thoſe ſapphire meſſengers,
that expreſſed, in language of ſuch exqui-
fie ſenſibility, every emotion of her deli.
cate ſoul; and, with a palpitating figh,
aroſe—She clad her graceful form in a
cloſe jacket of Nakara ſatin, trimmed with
filver, and the bloſſoms of the ſweet-ſcent-

ed pea, intermixed ; her petticoat was of

white ſattin, with a border of the ſame;
and on her head, half hiding, and half di.
covering her hyacinthine locks, ſhe care-
leſſly bound a glowing wreath of African
marygolds, and purple China- aſter, ſur-
mounting the whole with a light ker-
chief of pink Italian gauze, embroidered
by herſelf in lilies of the valley—She then
approached the window, and in a voice,
whoſe dulcet gurglings emulated the coo-
ings of the enamoured pigeon of the woods,
ſhe ſighed forth the following exquiſitively

expreſſive ode.”

Now

DESMOND. 169

Now do you think, my dear Fanny, that
either good or harm can be derived from
ſuch a book as this? Loſs of time may be,
with juſtice, objected to it, but no other
evil A ſenſible girl would certainly throw
it away in diſguſt: a weak one (who would
probably not underſtand half of it, could
it be underſtood at all) cries, Dear
how ſweet charming creature -A light
kerchief of pink Italian gauze, embroidered
with lilies of the valley! Her voice, the
dulcet gurglings of the enamoured pigeon
of the woods !- And then, meaning only
to enquire, whether this amiable Iphige-
nia was happy or no ?—She fits down to
have her hair curled—reads as faſt; as tc
roleate rays, and azure adventures, will let
her, to the end, and forgetting them all
dreſſes herſelf and goes to Ranelagh, or
the opera, where ſhe tells ſome little cream-
coloured beau what a dear, divine novel
ſhe has been reading; but of which, in
at, ſhe has forgotten every word.

Vo I. II. 1 I own

—

1900 DESMOND:

I own it has often ſtruck me as a fingular
inconſiſtency, that, while novels have been
condemned as being injurious to the intereſt
of virtue, the play-houſe has been called the
ſchool of morality— The comedies of the
laſt century are-almoſt, without exception,
ſo groſs, that, with all the alterations they
have received, they are very unfit for that
part of the audience to whom novel read-
ing is deemed pernicious, nor is the ex-
ample to be derived from them very con-
ducive to the intereſts of morality; for,
not only the rake and the coquette of the
piece are generally made happy, but thoſe
duties of life, to which novel- reading is
believed to be prejudicial, are almoſt al-
ways violated with impunity, or rendered
ridiculous by “ the trick of the ſcene
Age, which ought to be reſpected, is in-
variably exhibited, as hateful and con-
temptible To cheat an old father, or
laugh at a fat aunt, are the ſupreme me-

rits of the heroes and heroines; ; and though
nothing

DESMOND. 171
nothing is more out of nature than the old
man of the ſtage I cannot be of opinion,
that the ſcene is a ſchool of morality for 1
routh, which teaches them, chat age and 4
infirmity, are ſubjects of laughter and ridi-
cule—Such, however, is the taſte” of the
Engliſh in their theatrical amuſements—
And now, when the very offenſive jeſt is
no longer admitted, portraits of folly, ex-
aggerated till they loſe all reſemblance,
harlequin tricks, and pantomimical eſcages,
xe ſubſtituted to keep the audience awake,
and are accepted in place of genuine wit,
of which it muſt be owned, there is“ a
plentiful lack“ (with ſome ſtrong excep-
tons, however) in our modern comedy
All this is very well, if we take it as mere 4
; — ; muſement; but, what I quarrel with, is
s in- I e canting fallacy of calling the ſtage the
con- Wl ichool of morality—Roufleau ſays, very
or WWliltly, “ II n'y a que la raiſon qui ne ſoit
me. bonne a rien ſur la ſcene*®”—A reaſonable

* Itis reaſon only that is worth nothing on the
lage.
3

12 man

172 PESMON D.

man would be a character inſupportably
flat and inſipid even on the French ſtage,
and on the Engliſh, would not be endured
to the end of the firſt ſcene Even thoſe
charming pieces, which are called drames,
ſuch as le Pere de famille, VIndigent, le
Philoſophe ſans le ſcavoir, would, how-
ever well they might be tranſlated, adapt-
ed to our manners, and repreſented, lull
an Engliſh audience to ſleep, though they
exh;bit domeſtic ſcenes, by which mora-
lity and virtue are moſt forcibly inculcat-
ed; and ſuch, as by coming * home to
the buſineſs and boſoms” of the younger
part of the audience, might be, indeed,
leſſons in that ſchool, which our theatre
certainly does not form; though the care-
ful mothers, who dread the evil influence
of | novels, carry their daughters to its
moſt.exceptionable repreſentations.

In regard to novels, I cannot help re-

marking another ſtrange inconſiſtency,

which is, that the great name of Richard-

ſon, (and great it certainly deſerves to be)
makes,

DESMOND. 173

makes, by a kind of hereditary preſcriptive
deference, thoſe ſcenes, thofe deſcriptions,
paſs uncenſured in Pamela and Clariſſa,
which are infinitely more improper for the
peruſal of young women, than any that
can be found in the novels of the preſent
day; of which, indeed, it may be ſaid,
that, if they do no good, they do no
harm; and that there is a chance, that
thoſe who will read nothing, if they do
not read novels, may collect from them
ſome few ideas, that are not either falla-
cious, or abſurd, to add to the very ſcanty
ſtock which their uſual infipidity of life
has afforded them—As to myſelf, 1 read,
you know, all ſorts of books, and have
done ſo ever fince I was out of the nurfery,
for my mother had then no notion of re-
{training me—Novels, of courſe, and thoſe
very indifferent novels, were the firſt that
I could obtain; and J ran through them
with extreme avidity, often forgetting to
practiſe my leſſon on the harpſichord, or to
learn my French taſk, while I got up into

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174 DESMOND.

my own room, and deyoured with an eager
appetite, the mawkiſh pages that told of
damſels, mõſt exquiſitely beautiful, con-

fined by a cruel father, and eſcaping to an

heroic lover, while a wicked Lord laid in
wait to tear her from him, and carried her
to ſome remote caſtle—Thoſe delighted
me moſt that ended miſerably; and having
tortured me through the laſt volume with
impoſſible diſtreſs, ended in the funeral of
the heroing g Had the imagination of a
young perſon been liable to be much affect.

ed by theſe ſort of hiſtories, mine would,

probably, have taken a romantic turn, and
at eighteen, when I was married, I ſhould

have heſitated whether I ſhould obey my

friends directions, or have waited till the
hero appeared, who would have been im-

printed on my mind, from ſome of the

charming fabulous creatures, of whom |
had read in novels.—But, far from doing
ſo, I was, you ſee, ** obedient—very obe-
dient;” and, in the four years that have

fince paſt, I have thought only of being a
quiet

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DESMOND. 175

quiet wife, and a good nurſe, and of ful-
filling, as well as I can, the part which
has been choſen for me I know not how
| have ſlid into all this egotiſm, from a
defence of novel-reading—lt has, however,
ſerved to detach my thoughts from ſub”
jets of ** ſad import;” and I have written
myſelf into ſome degree of chearfulneſs ;
before I relapſe, therefore, I will bid you,
my beloved Fanny, adieu

| GERALDINE VERNEY.

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Bath, May 17th, 1791,

"IN purſuance of my promiſe, which,
though it was, perhaps, indiſcreet to give
it, I bold ſacred now that it is given; l

write to you, my dear friend, to relate an
hiſtory that cannot but wound you molt
cruelly, and add to that melancholy de-
ſpondence too viſible in your laſt letters—
T believe I told you“ that Geraldine was
ſuddenly returned to London, at the te-

queſt of her huſband, and that his ſtyle of

living at his houſe in Seymour-ſtreet, far

from having been reduced by the late un-
toward circumſtances that befel him there,
was more extravagant and profuſe than be-
fore—He was ſuppoſed to have won conli-

In a letter which does not appear.
derable

f

0

DESMOND. 177

derable ſums of money from the Duke de
Romagnecourt, and ſome other French»
men of fortune, emigrants in England;
and it was to do the honors of his houſe to
theſe new friends, that his wife, who could
no longer plead the excuſe of ill health,
was compelled, in obedience to his wiſhes,

to leave her quiet retirement at Sheen, and

return to witneſs follies ſne could not check,
and to ſee the progreſs of ruin, it was im-
poſſible for her to prevent.

In my way through London, about three
weeks ago, I called at her door, merely to
make an enquiry after her, and not expecting
to ſee her The ſervant, however, whom I
ſpoke to, informed me ſhe had been ſome
days in London, was then at home, and
would, he believed, ſee me. I ſent up my
name, and, on entering the room, was grati-
hed by the expreſſion of pleaſure, which, I
ſaw on the countenance of Geraldine, who,
inſtead of receiving me with the formality
of mere acquaintance, held out her hand
© me, and.called me. her good friend..

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178 DESMON D.

Ihe features of a gentleman, who was
ſitting with her, wore, I thought, a very
different meaning This was Colonel Scarf.
dale, who looked at me as if he at once
contemned me as a rural Squire, and diſ.
liked me as an unwelcome intruder—while
the evident preference that Geraldine gave
me by addreſſing all her converſation to
me, and enquiring ſolicitouſly about you,
ſeemed every moment to encreaſe his diſ-
pleaſure; ſtill, however, he ſtaid—noy
humming an air—and now making a vio-
lent noiſe with the little boy, for whom he
affects the moſt extravagant fondneſs ; and
though I wiſhed very much to have ſome
converſation with Geraldine, in which,
notwithſtanding her reſerve, I might have
learned more of her real ſituation, than 1
can gather from public report I found the
Colonel determined to ſtay too; and that
he was ſo much domeſticated in the houſe,
that he dreſſed there, and was, that day,
to make one of a large party that were

coming to dinner—As I was under the ne-
ceſſity

—

Lon.

DES MOND. 179

ceſſity of leaving London early the next
morning, I had no opportunity of attempt -
ing another interview with her; but as
ſoon as I arrived at Bath, I waited on her
mother and her ſiſter, and fortunately
found the latter at home alone.

Fanny Waverly received me with great
pleaſure, and was not leſs early and eager
in her enquiries after you, than Geraldine
had been two days before - When I told:
her that you were, from your on account,
ſo far recovered of your accident, that you
talked of leaving off the ling in which your
arm had been confined—her eyes ſparkled
with pleaſure; but when I added, that
you ſpoke leſs favourably of your general
health, and had no thoughts of returning
ſoon to England, ſhe evidently drooped in
dejection; and when I led the diſcourſe
towards Geraldine, as I immediately did,
ſhe diſſolved in tears. |

She told me, that the fituation: of her
iter gave her the moſt cruel alarms ; that
Verney was moſt undoubtedly ruined be-

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180 DES MOND.

yond remedy ; and that ſhe feared his real
reaſon for having brought back Geraldine
to his houſe, was, a hope of perſuading
her to give up her ſettlement, and enable
him to ſell his Vorkſhire eſtate, which,
ſa:d ſhe, „ I have too much reaſon to be.
lieve my ſiſter will conſent to- Nor is this
all my fear Geraldine is young, and very
lovely Every man of intrigue, who ſees
ſuch a woman neglected, or even worſe
treated by her huſband, is ready to form
deſigns for himſelf =I know there are, at
this time, many ſuch ſurrounding my ſiſter;
and though the purity of her heart, the
excellence of her underſtanding, and her
exceſſive tenderneſs for her children, arc
ſecurities for her conduct, which I cannot
a moment doubt; yet, I have ſuch an
opinion of Verney, that I am not certain
he is not capable of the moſt infamous pro-
ceedings, even towards his wife, if, by
ſuch, he could obtain the means of ſup-

porting a little longer the wild career,
which

-

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DESMOND. 181

which his mad infatuation repreſents as the

only one worthy of a man of faſhion. ?
This remark added to ybat I had made
in town on the behaviour of Colonel Scarſ-
dale, and my opinion of Verney, which is
not at all better than that Fanny entertains
of him, ſtartled me extremely f ſuch,
my dear Miſs Waverly,” ſaid I,“ are your
apprehenfions for your fiſter, ſurely your
mother, or your hrother, ought to inter-
fere, before they can be realized Surely,
they ought to reſcue this excellent and
lovely woman from the power of a huſ-
band, of whom ſuch horrors can be ſuſpect-
ed.“ —“ Alas! Mr. Bethel,” replied ſhe,
© how can I mention ſuch dreadful ideas
to my mother? who, conſcious, I believe,
that Geraldine was the victim of duty, and
married only in compliance with her and
my father's wiſhes, now endeavours to
eſcape the conviction, that ſhe has condemn-
ed her to the moſt dreadful of all deſtinies,
and will not ſee or hear, if ſhe can by any
means eſcape it, what is, unhappily, too
evident

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182 DESMOND.

evident to the reſt of the world==Wrapt
up, as her whole ſoul has,ever been in my
brother, ſhe has always thought, that in
marrying her daughters, in what is called,
a prudent way, that is, to men of large
fortune, ſhe had taken ſufficient trouble
about them ; ſhe never conſidered whether
there were any other ſources of unhappi.
neſs than want of money ; nor did it ever
occur to her, that in giving Geraldine to a
man of fortune and family, the overlooked

_ circumſtances in the character ef Verney,
(though, when he married, his character

was not developed) that might make her
daughter liable to all the diſtreſſes and
inconveniencies of poverty—To be con-

vinced that it is ſo, is to be convinced,
that ſhe has wanted either judgment or

tenderneſs, and ſhe takes refuge in cards
and company againſt the reproaches of
her own heatt—I have ventured, however,
fince I received ſome hints of the probabi-
lity there was, that Geraldine ſhould be

perſuaded to part with her ſettlement, to

implore

DESMOND. 183

implore my mother's attention to a circum-
tance ſo deſtructive, but ſhe impatiently
anſwered, that I talked nonſenſe ; for that
the truſtees to her marriage-articles, would
take eſpecial care to prevent her commit-
ting ſuch a folly—As to any other fears I
entertain, ſuch as thoſe I have juſt now
mentioned, my mother would treat them
25 2 romantic chimera of mine, and reſent
my ſuppoſing them probable or poſſible
How then I can venture to make reprefenta»
tons to my mother, which would, proba»
bly, be ill received and fruitleſs? or which,
were ſhe to attend to them a moment, ſhe
would, perbaps, find ſome occafion to
condernn as futile, becauſe ſhe would diſ-
like to do that, which, if ſhe allows them
ell founded, the ought to do—I mean,
to take her daughter to her own houſe, as
the only proper aſylum, if ſhe is compelled
to quit that of her huſband—This, how»
ever, I know my mother will avoid, for
Geraldine will never leave her children;
and my mother diſlikes their noiſe, and

| the

184 D ESMON D.

the trouble they occaſion in an houſe; and
ſhe is, in ſhort, for why may I not ſpeak
the truth to you? juſt at that period of
life, when the character retains little that
is feminine, but a love of trifles, and 4
redoubled attachment to ſome one weak:
neſs that has long been,cheriſhed—Such is
her violent partiality to my brother, for
whom (notwithſtanding the little encou-
ragement his entrance into the world has |
given to ſuch hopes) ſhe looks forward to- '
wards titles and dignities, which ſhe ima.
gines his fortune will command, and his
merit deſerve There are ſome hearts, |
Mr. Bethel, that have not room for more

than one ſtrong affection— Such, I ſuppoſe, P
is my mother's —The reſt of. it, which her

f
daughters might have occupied, is filled «

with trifling objects - and —— but I be 00

lieve, you will think me very wrong,“ for
continued ſhe, © and, perhaps, I have al- .
ready ſaid too much—I meant, however,

to account to you for omitting to do, wha ſee

certainly appears moſt rational under the „
N. appre- Far

and
peak
1 of
that
nd 4
eak ·
ch is
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rd to
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DESMOND.

zpprehenfions I have ventured to expreſs to
007” mung,
| was ſo much truck by the manner, as
well as the purport of this anſwer—ſo' con-
cerned for the ſituation of Geraldine=and
ſo affected by the tender intereſt her fiſter
thus expreſſed, that I could neither find
words, immediately to do juſtice to my
feelings, nor, in my mind, any remedy,
for the unhappy circumſtances that excited
them—Your charge, my dear Deſmond,
to uſe your fortune without ſcruple, in the
ſervice of Geraldine, cannot here be exe-
cuted; for to her, it would be worſe than
uſeleſs, while her huſband would derive
from it the means of continuing bis career
of vice and folly, yet ſomething ſhould be
done, and done immediately, to fave her
ſenſible heart from the anguiſh it muſt en-
dure for her children—to ſpare her the
mortification and miſery ſhe muſt feel in
ſeeing herſelf at the mercy of a wretch,
vho is believed capable of ſuch actions as
Fanny Waverly, I fear with too much rea-
ſong

185

* 186 DESMOND.
ſon, repreſents him as likely to practiſe.
As I wiſhed to have time to reflect on what

meaſures were the moſt proper, ſince of her
own family there ſeemed ſo little to hope,

* I took leave of Miſs Waverly, and return.

* ed to my lodgings; but my thoughts

LH dwelt in vain on the ſubjet—I ſaw no wer
in which it was proper, or even poſlible, Wl {

for the moſt diſintereſted friendſhip to in-
terfere between a man and his wife—lf
Verney is determined to ruin himſelf and
ber, I ſee not by what means it can be pre-
_ vented, or on what pretence, even her

_ own family, can ſeparate them, while he
chuſes ſhe ſhould remain the victim of bi
diſſipation, or hopes to derive, from the
admiration ſhe excites, the power of con
tinuing it; for to ſuch a plan Fanny Wa pe
verly undoubtedly alluded ; and I hart

| fince heard, that Scarſdale, who has beet
long trying to recommend himſelf to ti
favor of Geraldine in vain, has found
much eafier to embarraſs her huſband
affairs ſo much, as to have a proſpect
0 | obtainin

DESMOND 1387

obtaining that influence over her, from ne-
ceffity, which, from any other motive he
could never obtain — But, I think, if I
know any thing of the ſpirit and temper of
that incomparable woman ; ſhe will ſpurn,
with deteſtation, a monſter, who purſues
the gratification of his paſſions by perfidy
ſo atrocious—There was a time, when
new to the world, and unhackneyed in the
ways of men, 1 ſhould have felt indigna-
tion at the mere repreſentation of ſuch cha-
ncters as thoſe of Verney- and Scarſdale,
nd ſhould have thought it a miſanthropic
libel on human , nature—But, alas! I
know that ſuch men do exiſt; and I know
that it is very difficult to ſave Geraldine -
from them, if they unite in deſtroying her
peace and her reputation—I here break
off, to keep an appointment I have made
with Fanny Waverly, to meet at a book-
ſeller's ſhop, and walk together—Y ou will
mile, or rather, you would ſmile at any
uſband i other time, in figuring to yourſelf, your
ſpect (age Mentor, making an aſſignation with a
btainin ſprightly

188 DESMOND.

this is the only way, by which I can ob-

ſprightly girl of nineteen or twenty—Rut

tain an opportunity of talking with her
alone And I am one of the favored few,
whom her diſcreet mother allows to con-
verſe with her Louiſa, who is a great fa.
vorite, and who loves Miſs Waverly ex.
tremely, is, however, to make a third in
our party. ;
| May 18th, 1791,

Well! my friend—T am returned from
my tete d-tete with this young beauty, and
with an aching heart, but aching from
other motives than thoſe of love—The
week that has elapſed ſince I laſt converſed
with her about Geraldine, has produced
ſome of the events ſhe then expected, and
others, of which ſhe had no apprehenſion,

Waverly, your travelling companion,
is ſuddenly returned to England, while his

mother and his ſiſter thought him at Ve.
nice, with a nymph whom he had brought
from the Iſle of Cypreſs, whither he went

with ſome other young Engliſhmer
| Some

DESMOND. ug

Some miſadventure, by which he loſt the
dy, diſguſted him with their ſociety,
ind meeting at Genoa, with a Captain of a
nerchantman, juſt coming to England, he
embarked, after half-an-hour's debate, with

-But
1 ob-
1 her

few,

co. only one of his ſervants, leaving the others
At fa vith his baggage to follow; and having a
y 4 ery quick paſſage, he landed near Lon-
ird n don; and in fourteen hours arrived at

Bath, to the extreme ſatisfaction of his
* mother, who received him, as if the whole
d fon fine of his abſence had been paſſed in res
„5 fning bis manners, and cultivating his
from

underſtanding— I believe (though Fanny
does not ſay ſo) that there is no very viſible
improvement in either; but that he has
picked up, at every place, ſome ſmall ſpe-
cimen of the reigning follies, without hav»
ng dropped thoſe that he had acquired; be-
ore he ſet out But his mother, who be-
lieves be has completed the courſe of ſtudy
nd education which is requiſite to a man
H fortune, and © of a certain, ſtyle,” is

he went £2 30h 1 8
** do moſt eagerly ſolicitous to have bim
Som married;

—Tbe
nverſed
oduced
ed, and
henſion,
panion,
vhile his
| at Ve-
brought

r.

190 DESM ON D.

married ; and Fanny tells me, that, from
every appearance, at preſent, 1t 1s highly
probable, that, by the mutual endeavours
of the two elder ladies, Mrs. Fairfax and
Mrs. Waverly, this great event may be
accompliſhed—The eldeſt Miſs Fairfax
(your fair ariſtocrate, at Margate) 1s the
lady whoſe happy deſtiny it will be, to fix
this fluctuating lover.

This is a matter of importance no other.
wiſe, than, as it occupies entirely the ma-
ternal feelings of Mrs. Waverly, and pre-
vents her giving any attention to the ſitus
tion of her daughter Verney, and will as
certainly be a reaſon againſt her affording
her, even that pecuniary aſſiſtance, which
I greatly fear ſhe may now want, for the
cataſtrophe of Verney's affairs, ſo long
foreſeen, is at length arrived—The ſudden
encreaſe of expence which he rufhed into
in London, ended in his giving up the
leaſe of the houſe, and all its furniture, to
his creditors ; and it is advertiſed for ſale

on the zoth inſtant—Geraldine, and her

5 children,

child

to go
over!
ture,
is ſaic
derab]
Verne
fible t.
left he
either
the Du
who ar
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many t
(mall 1;
dheen,
no thi
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don, by
a diſtan
der ſorr
of them
dear De
meaſy t.

children, have, of courſe, left it; but not
to go to Mooreſly Park, which is made
over for a term of years, with the furni-
ture, and ſtock, to Colonel Scarſdale, as
s ſaid, towards the diſcharge of a conſi-
derable debt, of what is called honor
Verney himſelf, who ſeems totally inſen-
ible to the ſufferings of his wife, and has
left her to ſtruggle againſt them alone, is
either gone, or going to Germany with
the Duke de Romagnecourt, and his party,
who are about to join the exiled French
Princes Fanny Waverly told me, with
many tears, that her ſiſter was gone into a
(mall lodging at Kenfington, for thoſe at
Sheen, humble as they once appeared, ſhe
now thought too expenſive for her; that
ſhe did not intend to remain ſo near Lon-
don, but to find ſome cheap retirement in
a diſtant country, where ſhe might conceal .
ber ſorrows from thoſe, to whom the fight
of them would be oppreſſive. Thus, my
dear Deſmond, I have executed the moſt
er Naneaſy taſk I ever undertook, that of relat-

n, | ; ing

192 DE SMO ND.
ing the calamities that ſeem likely to over-

ou
whelm our charming friend - Be not, how. be
ever, in pain about her immediate fituation, buſi
; as to money I have ſettled with Fanny as q
; Waverly the means of being, for the pre- hay
ſent, her banker, without her knowing vant
1 that any but her own family execute this who
4 office And I have entreated this amiable WM fall
girl to endeavour to obtain leave of her mo- ſoon
| ther to go to her fiſter in this hour of bitter W chat
1 diſtreſs—This, however, is a permiſſion WM your
q that Fanny has already ſolicited in vain; weak
| nor can ſhe obtain of Mrs. Waverly any Adie
| other attention to the cruel ſituation of
f Geraldine, than what the old lady thinks

neceſſary, to prevent the circumſtances ſhe
is under, from bringing any fort of diſ
grace on the reſt of the family, and injur-
ing her preſent projects, in regard to her
ſon, which are alone near her heart.
I direct this to St. Germains, where
your laſt letter tells me you will, by this
time, be arrived, to remain ſome time, [ vor

cannot imagine why, and do not aſk, as it
Y you

DESMON D. 193

you had choſen I ſhould know, you would
probably have told me However, my
buſineſs is to forward this letter to you, by
as quick a conveyance as poſſible I luckil y
have an opportunity of doing ſo, by a ſer-
vant belonging to an acquaintance of mine,

who is going to rejoin his maſter at Paris. I

ſhall be impatient to hear from you—Let me
ſoon have that ſatisfaction; and let me hear
that the deſpondence is gone, which, at
your age, and with your character, is a
weakneſs you ought not to indulge.—
Adieu!

Moſt faithfully your's,
E. BETHEL.
Vo L. 1. g K Li E T.

- * * * _— * —
„ i tld. <
-

194. DESMOND.
rr
TO MISS WAVERLY,

May 29th, 1791.

AT length, my Fanny, I begin to re-
cover— It is now three days ſince I have
been ſettled at my new abode, and return-
ing/tranquillity—T mean outward tranquil-
lity, (for that of the heart and ſpirit can
never more be mine) gives me a little time
to colle& my troubled thoughts—

50 And on the heat and flame of my endurance,
Sprinkle cool patience.“

But be not uneaſy about me —I am not ill
Il am only languid from the ſeverity of
my paſt ſufferings, and that languor is
every day decreaſing.

My two eldeſt children are quite well;
and my little George is as gaily playing on

* Shakeſpeare.
5 the

the t
the J.

—
woult
appo!
ſciou:
into
hithe.
the ſe
they |
uſed
divert
| can,
my «
nately
ed—]T
maid 1
after t
cowli;
golder
lap fu
May,“

lays, t

the turf here, as he uſed to be on that of
the lawn at Linwell, or the park at Moore-
fly—places, of which I once hoped, he
would be the inheritor—But, of my dif-
appointed hopes, my lovely boy 1s uncon-
ſcious! - yet he continually brings tears
into my eyes, by aſking, why we came

| hither what is become of his papa, of

the ſervants, and the horſes, wWhoſe names
they had taught him, and of the maid who
uſed to wait upon me -I endeavour to
divert theſe infantine enquiries as much as
| can, for they affect me more than even
my own melancholy refleftions—Fortu-
nately it is a ſeaſon when he is eaſily amuſ-
ed—I ſend him out with his fiſter and his
maid into the ſurrounding meadows, where,
after their maid has drefled their hats with
cowſlips, orchifles, cuckoo-flowers, and
golden-cups—my Harriet brings home her
lap full of theſe “ gay children of the
May,“ and, in her imperfect anguage,
lays, they are for“ dear mama,”

K 2 ; While

not to oppreſs you; and again, I afſure

196 DESMOND. *

While my little prattlers are abſent, ]
hang over the cradle of my infant William,
whoſe: health has again been ſadly diſor-
dered by all the anxiety I have endured;
yet, for his ſake, I endeavoured to repreſs
thoſe acute feelings with which my heart
was torn in pieces; but ſuch were their
nature, that it was impoſſible my health
ſhould not be affected, and, of courſe, that
of the child, who, under ſuch circum-
ſtances, I have, perhaps, done wrong to
continue nouriſhing at my breaſt, eſpecial.
ly. as I think he has never recovered the
firſt ſhock he received, when, at his birth,
I firſt knew ſo much, and fo ſuddenly, of
the diſarranged ſtate of Mr. Verney's cir-
cumſtances Compared with the loſs. of
my child, every other evil would be a
nothing; yet, perhaps, Iought not to wiſh
him to live, ſince to live is but to ſuffer.—
But again, my dear ſiſter, I check theſe
mournful thoughts, with which I ought

you,

you
ſion:
as Y
ſolu
char

leſs |

cove

loſin

pow:
I car

the'r
lame
ties 1
only
parti
tinua
tiona
ſhip-
in cos
pelle
vain;
cupie
their
ſure a

DESMOND. 197

you, that when none of theſe apprehen-
ſions aſſail my heart, I am not ſo unhappy
as you ſay you fear I am If I obtain re-
ſolution enough to look calmly at the
change which has befallen me, I ſee much
leſs to regret than moſt people would dif-
cover The only pleafure E have loſt in
loſing high affluence, is that of having the
power to befriend the unhappy, to whom
I can now give only my tears; but, for
the reſt, what have 1 loſt, that I ought to
lament The turbulent and joyleſs ſocie-
ties which Mr. Verney loved, were to me
only fatiguing and diſagreeable Thie
parties of faſhionable men that he con-
tinually collected, offered me neither ra-
tional converſation, nor permanent friend-
ſhip—and the women, with whom I was,
in conſequence of theſe connections, com-
pelled to aſſociate, were ſo inſipid, or ſo
vain ; ſo devoted to the card-table, or oc-
cupied by the rage of being admired, that
their acquaintance gave me as little plea»
ſure as mine ſeemed to give them ; and our
K 3 inter-

42

* 54 - _— * "
nn LS e

ws DESMOND
mtercourſe was, aſter two or three formal
dinners, reduced to the ſlight civility of
fending-cards 'to each other four or five
times in a winter. The fineries in which
Mr. Verney's vanity dreſſed me out, (he
called it love, I think, for a little time)
never gave me a moment's pleaſure; and
when laſt year, Colonel Scarſdale perſuaded
him, that J ought to be preſented, and ap-
pear ſometimes at court, I was perfectly
convinced that ſuch ceremonies were for me
the heavieſt puniſhments that could be de.
viſed; and, indeed, few of thoſe whoſe
pride or intereſt made their attendance on
them more frequent, were apparently more
delighted than I was, for they ſeemed unt-
verſally to feel under all the apparent gaie-
than er the influence wine the n

That realm he rules, and in ſuperb attire,

Viſits each carthly palace.“

Now, I believe, my Fanny, I am for
ever exempt, from being a viſitor where

. Hayley. |
this

DE SM ON D. 199

this hideous phantom holds his eternal
reign 3 and he will not, I truft, ſeek, me
in the farm houſe I now inhabit, and
which I am going to deſcribe to y...
The ſituation of it is charming—lt
ſtands on a riſing ground among meadows,
of which poetry, in the moſt flowery lan-
guage, could hardly exaggerate the beauty
Through theſe yellow meads, the Wye
takes its“ ſinuous courſe,” till its progreſs
is concealed by projecting hills, or rather
mountains, riſing beyond the meadows ;
their ſummits bare and rocky, their ſides
cloathed with woods, which, at this time,
exhibit every varied tint of vivid and early
vegetation Forgive me, if I borrow here
the aid of a poet, whoſe powerful pen,
with more than the magic of. the pencil,
brings whatever he deſcribes immense
before the .

No tree in all the grove but has its PLAY
Tho? each its hue peculiar ; paler ſome, |
And of a wanniſh grey, the willow fuch's ß
And poplar, that with filver lines his leaf;

K 4 And

200 DESMON P.
And aſh; far ſtretching his umbrageous arm;
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper ſlill,

| Lord of the woods, the long- ſurviving oak;

Some gloſſy-leaved and ſhining in the ſun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts

© Prolific ; and the lime at dewy eve
Diffuſing odours, *??

| Beneath theſe varied woods are a tract of
orchards, now covered with bloom, giv-
ing completely the idea of the

Primavera candida e vermiglia. *

A cottage or two, almoſt emboſomed
among the trees, are marked rather by the
ſmoke ariſing from their chimneys, than
by. their concealed thatch ; but thus dimly
ſeen, they give chearfulneſs to the land-
ſcape—Behind the houſe, the country
wears quite another aſpect— It riſes abrupt-
ly into ſmall knolls, too ſteep for the
ploughs, and, from the nature of the ſoil,
not much worth cultivation; ſince it is in

* Cowper.
+ Petrarch.

the

the I;
locks
but ti
high
and

plant
Fr

den o

by ar
of ye
for th
befid:
date,
many
of of
in the
The |
lo ha!
and ]
den 2
was it
when

**

DESMON D. 201

the lower part a black moor, and the hil-
locks are of yellow ſand, producing little
but the heath and the whortle-berry®*—=The
higher ridges, furze, or thorns, with here
and there, in the hollows, tufts of ſelf-
planted oaks. T
From this rude tract of country, the cars
den of this houſe 1s divided, in ſome parts,
by an old wall, in others, by a thick hedge
of yew and holly, the growth of centuries ;
for this is an old manorial refidence ; and
beſides the long row of firs, of very ancient
date, that ſhade part of the garden, has
many marks of having been'once the abode
of opulent poſſeſſors, who ornamented' it
in the taſte of the days in which they lived,
The laſt improvements in the houſe appear
to have been made in the time of Elizabeth
and James the Firſt ; but thoſe in the gar-
den are rather, -perhaps, in the ſtyle that
was imported from Holland by William,
when he was ſent for to ſecure the liberty

* Whortle-berry, or hurts, 7; accinium 1 Mrtills:
K 5 'of

222 DESMOND.
of Engliſhmen, and teach them to curtail

thar of their trees—T mean the taſte which
decorated our gardens with rows of ever-

greens, formally planted, and cut into the

imagined fhapes of men, peacocks, and
ſundey other forms

« Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,”

Thee laſt inhabitant of the houſe, was an

old and rich farmer, who had no reliſh for

theſe monuments of former elegance; but

the wife of him who now rents it, and of

whom 1 hire my apartments, told me,
with great exultation, that ſhe had cauſed
one of the men, at his leiſure hours, to clip
them into their former beauty, and make
them fit to be ſeen, all's one, as folks lay,
they uſed to be in the old Squire's time.”—

But, as this ruſtic ſculptor of vegetables is

not very expert in his art, the box, the hol-
ly, and the yew, have loſt all reſemblance to
themſelves, without finding any other—
In the borders beneath them, however,
there are a great many flowers, whoſe roots

| . LY

/

DESMWOND 203

have ſurvived thoſe who planted them,
and theſe ate even ſcattered « over the rough
parts of the encloſure, which is riven Ip
to the culinary productions, or le bol *
uncultivated | NE

$2. * * *

« Along the WY where once the r bullet
And where ſtill many a garden flower grows wild.“? |

And it is among theſe, which are now
L
peeping through the graſs, or blooming,
unſeen, among the thyme, balm, and la-
vender, that I, in my melancholy medita-
tions, repet 7

The tender roſe which ſeems in vinter des,
Revives in Spring, and lifts its dewy head:

But we - the great, the glorious, and the wile! <a
When once the hand of death has 2 eyes -F

= 8989 ** - 7 K 10. as [:@ 3 «24:08 3s 16581

Or rather, the lighter comb! of a very
agreeable French — on this En
which coneludes witch * 57% Ton

iu

| 3 Not e
« Mais helas pour vouloir revivre,, 5
La vie fil ul bien & dr n

* Goldſmith: - 1
t 1dyllium of Moſchus on as death of Bion.
K 6 Quand

204 DES MOND.

Quand nous Vaimons tant, ſongeons nous

| | »1. rl
De combien de chagrins, fa perte nous delivre ? pi
, N 2 ö chin
Elle n'eſt qu'un amas de craintes, de douleurs, a
De travaux, de ſoucis, de peine. this

Pour qui connoit les miſeres humaines;
Mourir n'eſt pas le plus grands des malheurs. *

But I am getting again into reflections,
which I blame myſelf for indulging, and
moralizing, when I undertook to give you
a picture of my abode,
The houſe itſelf is very old ; wide, pro-
jecting caſements, divided by heavy ſtone
work, a great brick hall, and

© Paſſages that lead to nothing.“

May give you ſome idea, and perhaps 2
dreary idea of the ſort of houſe. —The far.
mer, and his family, inhabit the northern
end of it, which was once the ſervants
apartments, kitchen, and buttery— The
rooms, however, which I have taken, are
not ſo forlorn, as from the general air of
the houſe you would ſuppoſe—lT have 3

+ Le: fleurs, Idylle par Madame des- Houlieres.
parlour

DESMOND: 258g
parlour waĩnſcotted and carpetted - The

chimney, indeed, is very large, b at
this time of the year, immens

0.140) 3 :

4e With flowers and 3 gay, * ol

And will, I dare ſay, look very well with
a blazing wood fire in it—Above, I have
a very good bed-chamber for myſelf, and
one, ſtill better, immediately adjoining,
for my children; theſe are papered, and
though not in a very modern ſtyle, perhaps,
they are clean, and warm—T have defired
ſome great, old, family pictures, with
which both theſe and the parlour were dif-
figured, might be removed, and 1 ſhall
ſupply the places of theſe heroes, who bled
in the civil wars, (as I gueſs, by their wigs
and their armour) and the dames, whoſe
ſimpering charms rewarded their proweſs,
but whoſe very names are now forgotten,
(ſad leſſon to human vanity !) with rude
brackets of wood, on which I ſhall put

* Goldimith. .
a flowers,

3 A. dt En i *
— 7 — *

with.

206 DE S)M/O ND.

flowers, and between them ſhelves for the
books I have brought with me Theſe lit.
tle arrangements ſerve to occupy my mind;
and I forget the convenieneies and luxuries.
of which I am deprived, in contriving
how I may ſtill obtain thoſe few, which
(perhaps, from fingularity of | taſte) are
more neceflary to my content, than the
fide-board of plate, the elegant furniture,
and handſome carriages, I have parted

I think more of their late thoughtleſ

owner, poor Verney ! yet why do I ſpeak

of him in a tone of pity, when he is, pro-
bably, much happier than Lam? —1 have
had no other letter from him fince our

baſty parting in London, than that, where-

in he very briefly afſented to my. prapoſed
retirement; and ſaid, though nat in direct

terms, that if I did not embarraſs him

about money, I was at liberty to do with

myſelf and my children whatever I thought

good will not comment on this—lI will
endeavour not to think of it turn always
f with:

DESMOND. 207

with painful pleaſures, to ſome" other fab.

jets ; but to one I think with pleaſure only
] am happy to hear Mr. Bethel is at Bath,
that you have fuch long and pleafant
converfations with him, and that his charms
ing girl is ſo much with you He is a man
whom I have always regarded and eſteemed
for his own ſake, as well as becauſe he was
ſo excellent a guardian, and is ſo warm a
friend to Mr. Deſmend.—You hear that
Deſmond is at St. Germains, that place is,
I ſuppoſe, the reſidence of Madame de
Boiſbelle, when ſhe is not with her brother.
But Mr. Bethel tells you that Deſmond
is quite reſtored to health, and only occa»
fionally wears his arm in. a ſling— may he.
ſoon loſe even that recollection of his pains
ful adventure I muſt now, my Fanny,
bid you adieu! my letter is very long, yet
T have written it all while my little Wilham
has been fleeping, and my other charmers
walking with their maid in the ſhade of one
of the woods, which a ruſtic bridge thrown
acrofs the river, puts within our reach
It

It is now near their hour of dinner, and |
ſee them from my window croſſing the
meadow ; I go to meet them, and help to
bring them home, as I ſee, by his actions
that George complains of being tired, and
ſolicits his Peggy to carry him as well as
his filter. I will ſeal my letter on my re.
turn, as it cannot go to the poſt till to.
morrow, |
| May 29th, Nine at Night.

I did not imagine, my Fanny, in leay-
ing my letter unſealed this morning, that
] ſhould have to add to its contents, the
hiſtory of a circumſtance that has ſurpriſed
me a good deal.

On my meeting my children in the field
below the houſe, their maid told me, that
Maſter George had tired himſelf ſo by
playing with a gentleman whom they had
met, and with a great dog he had with
him, that ſhe could hardly get him home.
I enquired who the gentleman was? and
heard, that they had ſeen him reading in
the wood, and that the dog, which was a

large water-ſpaniel, having ran towards
the

the

little
deſc
ſome
had
gerl)
ing t

take

the!
then

in pl
him
fore-
figur
know
She
cordi
man,

he hz
monc
ed a
thoug
an off
now,

DESMOND 209
the children, and ſomewhat alarmed the
little girl, his maſter, who was, as Peggy
deſcribed him, “ one of the moſt hand-
ſome gentlemen ſhe ever ſet eyes upon,”
had come up to them, and aſked very ea-
gerly, whole children they were; and hear-
ing that their names were Verney, he had
taken them both up and kiſſed them That
the little boy looked earneſtly at him, and
then returned his fondneſs ; and that once,
in playing with him, the gentleman, called
him George, as if he had known him be-
ſore I deſired the maid to deſcribe the
figure of this gentleman, that I might
know if it were any of my acquaintance
She ſaid, “ that he was a tall, and, (ae-
cording to her phraſe) quite a grand boking
nan, though not Jufty, but rather tbinniſh ;
he had dark eyes, brighter than any dia-
monds, and brown hair ; but that he look-
ed a little pale, as if he was ſick; and
though he ſeemed in his way ſomehow like
an officer, that he was left-handed.“ — Till
now, 1 had formed, I own, a vague, and

„% Ane

yet a very uneaſy idea, that this ſtranger,
who knew the name of my little boy. ſo
well, might be Colonel Scarſdale; but
this deſcription did not at all anſwer his
perſon ; and then I recollected, that if it
had been bim, George would have known
him, and indeed the maid alſo, who has
been ſo lately accuſtomed to ſee him every
day I then ſuppoſed it might be. ſome of
the neighbouring gentlemen, and bade
Peggy deſcribe him to the farmer's wife
and ſervants, which ſhe has juſt done, and
tells me that there is no ſuch perſon, in this
country that they know of, and that the
neareſt. gentleman's feat . is above ſeven
miles off—I have again been queſtion-
ing Peggy, as this ſtranger's having ſo
much noticed the children, has made 2
great impreſſion on my mind She ſays,
ſne is ſure, from his manner, that it is
ſome gentleman who had been acquainted
in the family, becauſe he ſeemed. ſo fond
of them, and © ſomehow. glad to ſee
them,” and that he aſked George if he

, often

,
)
L
)
)
[

we * — >> —_— — WM

*

| af LES . r

*

D ESMON D. 22771
often walked in that wood, and whether
his mama ever walked there ?= And to
be ſure, Ma'am,” remarks Peggy, it muſt
de ſomebody that knows you, or how
ſhould he enquire after the children's
mama, for I never told him whether they
had a mama or a papa, or who belonging

to them.”

The more queſtions I aſk, the more I wiſh
to know who this is, and whether it is real-
ly any man whom I have formerly known
who happens accidentally to be in this
country ?—lIFf it is, he will, probably, ſince
he knows where I am, call upon me; and
if it is not, of what importance is the cir-
cumſtance at all ?—Thus I have endea-
voured to reaſon myſelf out of the reſtleſs
curiofity that has diſturbed me, perhaps»
fooliſhly enough the whole of the remain-
ing day —It is now night—a calm, a love-
ly night, without a moon indeed, but
with the canopy of heaven illuminated
with countleſs myriads of “ planetary
fires” Such a night, my Fanny, as ſome

| of

212 DESMOND.

of thoſe in which we uſed, during the firſt
year of my marriage, to be induced by

Deſmond to wander in the coppice-walks
and ſhrubberies, that ſurrounded the lawn at

Linwell—Alone, as I am here, I muſt

not venture ſo far from the houſe; but!
may traverſe the graſs-plat before it, and
liſten to the nightingales, of which num.

bers ſalute me every evening with their

ſong from the oppoſite woods; their de.

licious notes, ſoftened and prolonged by

the echos from the bridge and the water;
one only one, ſeems to have taken up his
lonely abode in the garden here Alas ! [

could be romantic enough to faney it the

ſpirit of ſome ſolitary and deſerted being
like myſelf, that comes ſympathetically to

hear and ſoothe my ſorrows.

Let me tell them then to this viſionary
viſitant, rather than to my Fanny; and
now, in wiſhing her a good night, wiſh
too, that her ſlumbers may bring to her
mind, without diſturbing it, the image of,
her NO g et
. GERALDINE.

LET

notice
nary,
two,

proba

DES MOND. 213

LETTER XV.
TO MISS WAVERLY.

eth June, 1791.

THE opportunities I have of ſending
to the poſt are ſo few, my dear ſiſter, that
though I write whenever I have any thing
o ſay, which I imagine you wiſh to hear,
or whenever it relieves my heavy heart, to
pour out its ſorrows to you, yet I know
my letters do not reach you regularly, and
| have, from the ſame cauſe, the mortifica-
tion of waiting ſome days for your's, after
they arrive at the poſt-office of the neigh»
bouring town. -

You may, perhaps, be anxious to know
if I have again heard of the ſtranger, whoſe
notice of my children ſeemed fo extraordi-
nary, and I own, for the following day or
wo, gave me ſome uneaſineſs He was
probably, however, only a traveller of

- caſte,

214 DESMOND.

taſte, invited by the beauty of this part of
the country at this ſeaſon, to make an
abode of a day or two at ſome little neigh-
bouring public-bouſe, or cottage, a cir-
cumſtance which, my landlord here, tells
me, is not unfrequent—It was, perhaps,
the lovelineſs of my little ones that attract.
ed his attention, and not any previous ac-
quaintance with their family; and for the
familiarity with which he ſeemed to treat
them, much of it poſſibly in the mere
fancy of Peggy, who, though a very good
girl, is as likely as any other, to add to a
ſtory ſhe tells from a natural love of the
marvellous. —I ſay thus much about this
adventure, leaſt what I told you in my laſt
letter ſhould raiſe any uneaſy ideas in your
mind ; for I know you have a hundred fan-
cies about Colonel Scarſdale, and ſuppoſe
that he is a fort of modern Lovelace; but,
believe me, my Fanny, that character does

not exiſt now; there is no modern man of
faſhion, who would take a hundredth patt
of the trouble that Richardſon makes Love-

lace

Jace ft
were
4 mar
in his
of fo
have

ready

he ce
from

fame
the ci
lowed
idle!
few n
Incon!

DESMOND. 2275
ace take, to obtain Helen herſelf, if ſhe

were to return to earth And Scarſdale is
man ſo devoted to the acquiſition of fame

in bis own ſtyle of life, that with my change

of fortune, his purſuit ends It would
have added ſomething to the glories he al-

ready boaſts in the annals of gallantry, if

he could have carried off Verney's wife
from her huſband, her children, and her
fame; but now that ſhe is baniſhed from
the circles where ſhe was talked of and fol-
lowed now, that ſhe is forgotten by the
idle flutterers who ſurrounded her for a

inconfiderable, to be any object to ſuch a
man, and is, ſhe thanks heaven, ſheltered
by her obſcurity from his inſolent preten-
ſons. | | | |
I have little more to ſay to-day, but that
my precious William is better, and my
apprehenſions about him ſubſide again—1
impatiently wait to hear how my brother's
love affair proceeds, though, in my laſt let-
ter, I omitted to mention his name, enga-

ged,

few months ; ſhe is too humble, and too

-

|

:

216 DESMOND:

ged, as I was, by the multiplicity of trifles
but this is not owing to any indifference
about him—T love my brother, and ſhould
rejoice in his being happily married, though
he ſeems to have forgotten that he has a
ſiſter, whoſe comfortleſs deſtiny ſhould, at
leaſt, ſecure to her the common civilities

of life from her own family, if they can-

not ſpare her any ſhare of their affections
— Alas! how eaſily do common minds
make to themſelves excuſes for forſaking

and forgetting the unhappy—Were again

to appear (which heaven forbid) 1n thoſe
ſocieties, whoſe members now think me
funk below them—what inſulting pity !|—
what contemptuous condolences I ſhould
receive -In proportion as I was once

thought the object of envy, ſhould I now

be that of ill concealed triumph, and ma-

lignant ſcorn, under the ſemblance of ſym-

pathy and concern—When theſe thoughts
ariſe, you cannot imagine how well pleaſed
I am that I am here

« Are

„ / /

Q-

b
on]
0

DES MOND. 217

Are not theſe. woods 8
More free from peril than the envious court? * J

And, as I hide myſelf in them, I regret
nothing but your company, my fiſter, and
yet, I ought not to wiſh you with me,

hen you are where the young and happy
- ought to be, amid that world which has,

at your age, and with your *
proſpects, ſo many charms.

Farewell, for the preſent—it is a deli.
cious evening, and I will now venture to
walk out and enjoy it—How forcibly every
ſuch ſcene brings to my mind our morn-
ing walks, our evening rambles in Kent,
and the pleaſant little trios we uſed to make
with Mr. Deſmond, who has ſo much
taſte, and ſo much genuine enthuſiaſm—T
wonder whether he is as much gratified by
the charms of Spring at St. Germains, as
he uſed to be in England? I ſhould rather
fear not; at leaſt, that he is leſs likely
there to find companions who underſtand

* Shakeſpeare,
Vo T. IL L him,

GI * ST ty *
” * n

218 DES MOND.

him, and can participate his pleaſure; for
the French ladies in general have, I be.
lieve, very little notion of that ſpecies of
delight, that ariſes from contemplating

the ſimple beauties of nature A few days

will ſoon make it a twelvemonth fince J
ſaw Deſmond, and of that time, he has
ſacrificed more than half to his diſintereſt-
ed friendſhip to my brother—Bur I have
repeated this ſo often to myſelf, that, per-
haps, I have as often obtruded it upon
your recollection.

I have found in the oppoſite woods one
of the moſt ſingular, and moſt beautiful
ſpots that 1 ever ſaw—It is a little hill,
or rather three or four hills that ſeem
piled together, though the inequality of
their forms is concealed and adorned by
the variety of trees with which they are
covered; many of theſe are ever-greens,
ſuch as holly and yew; and juſt where
their thade is the darkeſt, they ſuddenly
recede, and, from a ſtoney excavation,
3 forth a ſtrong and rapid ſtream of

pure and brilliant water, which pours di-
"I

rec
the
hig
dar!
and
it fi
that

ing

ent
unit
and
ever
ing
ſum
ſeem
their
unex
murr
they
wove
hill ;
howe
ſumm
reſt, |

DES MOND. 219

rectly down the precipice, and is loſt in
the trees that croud over it A few paces
higher up from a bare projection of rock,
darts forth another current equally limpid,
and having made itſelf a little baſon, which
it fills, it haſtens over the rugged ſtones,
that are thus worn by its courſe, and daſh»

ing down the hill for ſome time in a differ-

ent direction, meets the former ſtream ;
united, they make a conſiderable brook,
and haſten to join the Wye; not, how-
ever, till two or three other little wander-
ing currents, that ariſe ſtill nearer, the
ſummit of this rocky eminence, which
ſeems to abound in ſprings, have found
their way to the ſame courſe—Of theſe
unexpected guſhes of water, you hear the
murmurs often without ſeeing from whence
they ariſe 3 ſo thickly is the wood inter-
woven over the whole ſurface of the wild
bill; a narrow, and hardly viſible path,
however, winds around it, quite to its
ſummit, which is leſs cloathed than the

reſt, and where, on two roots, that the
L 2 hand

4
ö

r

"
'Y

220 DESMOND.

hand of time, rather than the art of man,
has twiſted into a ſort of groteſque, ruſtic
chair, I fit—and liſtening to the ſoothing
ſounds of the water, as it either ſteals or
ruſhes beneath—I can ſee through the
boughs great part of the farm-houſe I in-
habit, and nearer, the grey ſmoke of cot-
tages without the wood, curling among the
mingled foliage—lIt is, my dear fiſter, in

this ſequeſtered nook, that I am going

to wander, and to think of you as the moſt
pleaſing contemplation, in which I can in-
dulge myſelf ; once more, then, a good
night.

Gracious heaven Am I in the delirium
of one of thoſe feveriſh viſions, which,
with undeſcribable ſenſations of pain, plea-
ſure, and wonder, reconcile, for a mo-
ment, impoſſibilities, or am I really awake?
— have ſcen him.—Deſmond, whom |
believed to be in France! Whom I had
not the leaſt idea of meeting in this remote
country! whom I even doubted, whether

I ſhould ever ſee again! That I might ſay,
how

how
grat
reco
of
had

you,

Alt

thou
ting
ligh
] dic
do,
late,
as I.
turn
I wa
of e
ſcent
ſong
murt
with
whic
1 rea
grou

DESMON D. 221
how truly ſenfible I was of the debt of
gratitude I owed him!—But I will try to
recollect myſelf enough to relate, inſtead
of exclaiming ! Yeſterday evening, I
had finiſhed, as I believed, my letter to
you, and had ſeen my children put to bed
Alt was not yet eight o'clock, and the ſun»
though ſunk beneath the oppoſite hills,
tinged the whole landſcape with that roſy
light, which it is impoſſible to defſcribe—
did not take a book with me, as I uſually
do, when I walk alone, becauſe it was {6
late, that I meant, inſtead of fauntering,
as I love to do, to take my walk and re-
turn; however, when I reached the wood,
I was tempted, by the perfect tranquillity
of every thing around me—the fragrant
ſcents that floated in the air—the ſoothing
ſong of innumerable birds, and the low
murmurs of the water, to gratify myſelf
with a view of my favourite little hill,
which I had never yet ſeen in an evening—
I reached the top; when, ſtretched on the

ground, his head reſting on his arm, (from
* which

—

222 DESM ON D.

which a book ſeemed to have fallen) as

it bung over the branch of the rude

chair I before deſcribed to you, I ſaw a gen-
tleman, who appeared to be ſleeping— had
no idea of his face, for his hat and his hair
concealed it, nor did I ſtay to ſee if I te-
collected his figure, but concluding that
this was the ſame perſon who had been mct
by the children, I was returning very haſti-
ly from an impulſe that had more of fear
in it, than his general appearance ought to
have raiſed ; when his dog, which lay by
him, ran forward towards me; at the ſame
moment, the gentleman raiſed his head
I faw Deſmond leap from the ground,
and, though in as much confuſion as !
was, he inſtantly approached me“ Mrs,
Verney!“ was all he ſaid, and even to
that I had nothing, for a moment, to re-
ply—till he added—* I am afraid I have
alarmed you“ “ You have indeed,“ an-
ſwered I—f for to meet any one here, was

very unexpected to meet-you !”——l did

not know what I would ſay - but he ſeemed
nov

DES MOND. 223

dow to have recovered himſelf, and finiſh-
ed the ſentence for me—** was more un-
expected {till ??—< It was indeed, for I

thought you were in France.”
He gave no anſwer to this, nor did he
account for his being in a part of the coun-
try, where I don't remember to have heard
be had any acquaintance or connexions,
but fimply begging of me to forgive the
momentary alarm he had involuntarily
been the occaſion of, he ſaid, “ fince I
have had, however unexpectedly, the hap-
pineſs of meeting you, Madam, will you
allow me to have the honor of attending
you to your home?“ -H heſitated -I know
not why, and then ſaid, ** certainly We
began ſlowly to deſcend the winding and
ſteep path, which is croſſed by roots, and
interrupted by pieces of rocks—lt was now,
from the lateneſs of the hour, alſo obſcure;
and he, of courſe, offered me his arm,
which I accepted indeed, but not with that
eaſy confidence J uſed to have in our early
rambles, three years ago—lIt was now,
L 4 that

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that T firſt obſerved a black crape round
his neck, in which he flung his right arm,
while he affiſted me to deſcend with his

left—I ſhuddered, but I could make no
remark on that circumſtance—He ſeemed
no more diſpoſed to converſe than I. was,
and we were filent till we reached the or-

"chard, ſurrounding a cottage, through
which the path leads, by a ſtile through
the meadows, and over the bridge—He

ſeemed to know the way, as if he had
been long accuſtemed to it—I then diſen-
gaged my arm, and he went firſt, but, in
reaching the other ſide of the ſtile, my foot

Mlipped, and 1 ſhould have fallen, but

Deſmond, who had advanced three or four

Reps, flew back and caught me—He trem-

bled fo, that it was impoſſible to help re-
marking it—I feared, that, in endeavour-

ing to ſave me, he had hurt his arm; and
4 almoſt, involuntarily, expreſſed my ap-
prehenſions— He aſſured me he had not re-

ceived the ſlighteſt injury, and again offer-
ed me his left arm, on which I again leant,
* | and

DESMOND. 225

and with very little converſation, and that
little conſiſting of broken and incoherent
ſentences, we, at cen reached the

houſe. Yer
There were candles in my little parlour,
and the table was prepared for my ſimple
ſupper ; I aſked him, of courſe, to par-
take of it, he replied, in a low voice, that
he ſeldom ſupped at all, but could not re-
fuſe to fit down—Peggy came in to wait,
and he placed himſelf oppoſite to me.
It was then, and not till then, my F anny,
that I obſerved the extraordinary alteration
in the countenance of Deſmond ; he has
loſt all that look of health and vivacity
which we uſed to remark — pale, thin, al-
moſt to emaciation; his eyes ſtill radient
indeed, but expreſſing dejection; or if
they, for a moment, aſſumed any other
look, it was that of anxiety—He ſpoke
ſometimes very low, at others, with that
ſort of quickneſs, which is obſervable,
when people wiſh to end embarraſſing con-
verſation—And when I mentioned his wan.
L5 derings,

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226 DESMON
detings, or his friends'in France, (which 1
at length collected courage to do) he gave
me ſlight” anſwers, and changed the con-
verſation as ſoon as poſlible.

As this evaſion of every topic that led
him to ſpeak of his foreign connexions,
was every moment more ſtriking, the cauſe
of it, at length, occurred to me—T truſt I
am not ſuſpicious, or inquiſitive ; and cer-
tainly am neither defirous of prying into
the actions of my friends, nor diſpoſed to
bleme thoſe of Deſmond, to whom I owe
ſo much; but I have now no doubt, that this
reſerve ariſes from his having been accom-
panied to England by Madame de Boiſ-
belle; and having taken, in this neigh-
bourhood, ſome refidence for her, on ac-
count of its being fo retired—lf this is the
caſe, he was probably hurt and diſtreſſed
in meeting here, one of his acquaintance;
and it accounts at once for his manner,
which, though I cannot well deſcribe it,
appears very Extraordinary. |

| This

*

ſel

DE SMON D. 227

This idea no ſooner ſtruck; me, than I
felt hurt at the pain I thus unintentionally
had given him, and particularly at having
aſked him, as I had done ſome minutes
before, and merely for, ſomething to ſay,
how long he propoſed ſtaying} in this part
of England? an enquiry which he anſwer-
ed, after ſome heſitation, by ſaying, it
was uncertain. |

As 1 now dreaded that every CERES
however apparently inconſequential, might
lead him to ſuppoſe me impertinently curi-
ous, we both fat filent, and I believe, be was
meditating how to put an end to an inter-
view, which was, perhaps at once, tedious
and diſtreſſing to him; yet, Lobſerved, when
dared obſerve his countenance, that he
looked at me with eyes full of concern and
pity, which I impute to the goodneſs of
his nature He felt ſorry to ſee me in a
ſituation ſo different from that which I was
placed in, when our acquaintance began—
An acquaintance, that I cannot endure to
think, has been productive to him only of
perſonal and mental uneaſineſs.

L 6 At

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228 DESM/ON'D.

At length, after an hour and a half, the
only time of my life that J ever paſſed in
Deſmond's company unpleaſantly, he aroſe
to go, and with a ſolemnity, that yet had
more dejection than formality in it, he ſaid
he muſt wiſh me a good night—I was on
the point of aſking him a very natural

queſtion, Tf he had far to go home?“

but I checked myſelf, and did not encreaſe,
by any queſtion, the embarraſſment he
ſeemed to be under, when, heſitating and
faltering, he ſaid, ,** May I be permitted,
Madam, to pay my reſpects to you once
more before I May I be allowed the
honor of waiting on you once again?“ —
J had ſurely no pretence to refuſe this
He knows I am never engaged; and he
knows that I am, or ought to be, more

obliged to him than to any other human

being—I could not, aſſuredly, therefore
decline or evade, what I, however, wiſhed
he had not aſked ;. as I not only fee him ſo
changed, as he is, both in appearance and
in ſpirits, with concern; but fear, from

his

DE SM ON D. #99

his deportment, that the attention which
he, perhaps, thinks himſelf under the ne-
ceſſity of ſhewing me, may put him into
difficulties with the lady to whom he has
attached himſelf -I have other uneaſy ſen-
ſations about it; but, however, I could
only ſay, in anſwer to the permiſſion he
requeſted, that I ſhould always be glad of
Mr. Deſmond's company, whenever he
would ſo far honor me — He fighed, and
thanked me; but added, I ſhall not,
Madam, intrude much on your indulgence,
for in a very few days” —— he hefitated
again, and I could not help repeating, in
a few days? Do you leave the neighbour-
hood in a few days?” —** I believe, ſo,“
ſaid he—< Ves! I believe Imuſt go within
a few days; will you then ſuffer me to call
to-morrow ?, and may I be gratified with a
fight of your children?“ —1 faid, © yes,”
and then, without naming the hour at
which he would call, he left me.

Thus, my Fanny, ended this very ex-
traordinary interview, for extraordinary it
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230 D ESM ON D.

certainly is.—l know not from whence Mr,
Deſmond laſt came, or whither he is go-
ing—T know not where he has taken up
his preſent abode— 1 could not, however,
forbear marking from my window the way
he took when he left me; and, as long
as J could diſcern his figure through the
obſcurity of the night, he ſeemed to return
through the fields, and over the bridge,
the ſame road as he came with mel left
the window—(from whence, I hope, there
was nothing wrong in my thus obſerving
him) I left it, only to retire to my pillow
and my tears; which flowed more than
uſual this evening, yet I know not why ;
unleſs the ſuddenly meeting an acquaint-
ance, a friend, who has certainly a great
claim to my gratitude and good wiſhes,
had more than uſually fatigued my ſpirits,
for, as to the reſt, why ſhould I be thus
agitated by a circumſtance in which I have
no immediate intereſt? Whether Mr.
Deſmond be travelling through this country
alone, or whether he is retired hither with
any

D ES MOND. 231

any companion, what have I to do with it?
or why ſhould I think of him farther than
ever to follow him with my grateful wiſhes?
It is now eleven o'clock—T have left my
bed fince a quarter palt five, for to fleep
was impoſſible ; ever ſince the hour When
I thought it probable Mr. Deſmond” (who -
knows I am an early riſer) might come—
have been expecting him, but, perhaps,
he has changed his mind, or his friend
may have engaged him.—It is market-day
at the neighbouring town, and I have an
opportunity of ſending this letter, or ra-
ther this enormous pacquet, to the poſt,
by my honeſt farmer, who has juſt ſenp
in to ſay he is going—l therefore ſeal it,
and will endeavour to reaſon away this
ridiculous flutter, which the idea of a vi-
ſtor gives me, (probably, becauſe I have
been of late fo little uſed to company) and
fit quietly down to finiſh a view I am do-
ing for you, of the proſpect from my win-

dows ; in the progreſs of which, hitherto,
| I have,

SF

232 DESMOND.
I have, contrary to my uſual cuſtom, pleaſ.
ed myſelf.

Farewell, my dear ſiſter perhaps my
commiſſioner may, on his return from
town, bring me what would now be the
moſt ſoothing and conſoling to my ſpirits,
a letter from my Fanny.

GERALDINE VERNEY,

LET:

Y ” 7% % A | = —
(1 I C3 IV , . ;
DESMOND. 233
A+
. cob I rr \c H

TROY MAHON

TO MR. BETHEL.

From naten A al u Claſer of £Cor
tages, in Herefordſture, June 8th, 1791.

WHEN a man knows, my dear Be-
thel, that he is acting like a fool, the moſt
uſual way is to keep it to himſelf, and to
endeavour to perſuade the world that he is
actually performing the part of a wiſe man;
but I, who am, as you have often ſaid, a
ſtrange, eccentrick being, and not much
like any other, am going to do juſt the
reverſe of this, and to acknowledge my
tolly without even trying at palliation ;
nay, I accuſe myſelf of having the appear-
ance of ſomething much worſe than folly,
which is ingratitude to you; but, as this
is in appearance only, it is the former
accuſation alone to which I ſhall plead;
and much eloquence will be neceſſary to
ſupply the defect of reaſon, which I know

you

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234 DESMON D.

you will think my conduct betrays, when
you ſee my letter dated from ſuch a place,
and are told that it is within half a mile of
the reſidence of Geraldine Have pati-
ence, however, till I can relate the cauſe
of all this, and, though I was neither bred
to the bar, where, for money, our learned
in the laws undertake

*'To its the worſer ſeem the better reaſon,*”

Nor am naturally endowed with the fa-
culty of doing ſo, I ſhall, at leaſt, be able,
I think, to convince you, that no motive

injurious either to my friendſhip towards

you, or my more tender affection for Ge-
raldine, has led me to viſit her in a way
that may be called clandeſtine, or to con-
ceal from you my journey and my inten-
tions; though, to ſay the truth, I did not
mean to inform you of it till I ſaw you, nor
ſhould I have done ſo, but for the acciden-
tal circumſtances of having firſt met her
lovely children, and then her lovely ſelf—

* Milton.

How

o

DESMOND; 235

How then, you aſk, were you con-
cealed in her immediate neighbourhood,
without any intention of either? Ineredi-
ble folly !?—Such, however, were my in-
tentions—TI allow, if you pleaſe, all the
folly, but, I inſiſt upon it, that there was
no ſort of harm in ſuch a gratification as I
propoſed to myſelf, by which myſelf only
(if romantic attachment can hurt a man)
was alone likely to be hurt; and, for
which, therefore, 1 ſhould hold myſelf ac-
countable to no one, my dear friend; not
even to you, if I did not feel that your fin-
cere and generous attachment to me, de-
ſerves all that confidence which I can re-
poſe in you, in matters that relate.only to
myſelf. ——Your laſt letter deſcribing the total
ruin of Verney, and the diſperſion of his
family, completed the meaſure of that un-
eaſineſs I had long ſuſtained on account of
Geraldine—lt was in vain I endeavoured
to reaſon myſelf out of it—L- find, that
ſeven-and-twenty is not the age of reaſon,

or, at leaſt, where the heart is ſo deeply
concerned

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236 DESMON D.

concerned—There were a hundred cauſes
why I had rather have gone, at the mo-
ment I fet out, to Nova-Scotia, or even
to Nova-Zembla, than to England—But
the idea of Geraldine deferted in diſtreſs!
—Of Geraldine in poverty ang forrow !
obliterated every other conſideration in the
world; and within four-and-twenty hours
after the receipt of your laſt letter, which
found me at St. Germains, I fet out poſt,
without taking even Warham with me,
or ſaying whither I was going; and in ſix-
and-thirty hours afterwards was at Dover,
from wherice I made my way, as quickly
as I could, to the poſt-town in Hereford-
ſhire, near which I had learned, (it mat-
ters not by what means) that Geraldine
had, with her children, fixed her humble
abode.

I told the people at the inn where I put
up, that, being in an ill ſtate of health,
(an aſſertion, to the truth of which, my
figure and countenance bears ſome teſti-
mony) I was directed by my phyſicians to

travel;

DE S MOND. 237

travel; and had been adviſed to bend my
way towards Wales, ſtaying ſome little
time at any place where the face of the
country appeared agreeable, or the air ſa-
lubrious l added, that I ſhould ſtay, per-
haps, a week or ten days in this neigh-
bourhood ; but as it was not for their in-
tereſt to find out a private lodging for me,
| applied, for that purpoſe, to the hair-
dreſſer, who profeſſed, over his ſhop wins
dow, to“ dreſs ladies and gentlemen in
the very neweſt London faſhion.” 1
This very intelligent perſonage inform-
ed me, that what I wanted was, at pre-
ſent, ſomewhat hard to be met with; for
that © the pleaſanteſt and almoſt only lodg-
ing near that town, which was, however,
about ſix miles off, or rather better, was
lately taken, by a lady and her children, for
a year certain“ I affected to be ſtruck
with the deſcription he gave of the plea-
ſantneſs of the ſituation on the banks of
the Wye; and aſked, if he thought any
cottage in the neighbourhood of the houſe
he

238 DESMOND.

he deſcribed, could afford me a bed cham-
ber ? I cared not how humble and plain, if
it were merely clean; ſaying farther, that,
as health was my purſuit, money was no
object to me; and that, therefore, I would
give any perſon, who could find ſuch an
accommodation for me, a handſome preſent
for their trouble; and would hire the
apartment for a month certain, though 1
poſſibly might not remain in it a week.

My honeſt barber, whoſe zeal for my
ſervice was now completely awakened, ſet
forth immediately to ſee what could be
. done for me; and, in the afternoon, re-
turned to ſay, that, in a very clean cot-
tage, he had found a decent bed-chamber,
which I inſtantly ſet off, on foot, to ſce—
walking not much like an invalid. I found
the humble thatched cottage was one
among a group of five or fix, which are
ſituated among orchards, at the foot of
that range of woody hills, which are imme-
diately oppoſite the farm-houſe inhabited

by Geraldine There was no ceiling to the
room

DESMON D: 239
room but the thatch and rafters, and no

curtains to the bed, yet the chamber was
clean, and I determined to take immediate
poſſeſſion of it I therefore ratified my
bargain to the great delight of the old man
and his wife, who alone inhabited the cot-
tage; and having ſatisfied my conductor,
even beyond his expectation, I engaged
him to return to the town for my baggage,
and to attend me every day with a lad
from the inn, from whence I am —
with proviſions.

[ then retired to my lowly conch; and
ſlept better than I have done ſince the re-
ceipt of your letter, in the certainty that,
by the riſing ſun of the next morning, I
ſhould fee the houſe where the lovelieſt and
moſt injured woman on the earth hides her
undeſerved misfortunes.

You will believe me, my friend, when
I proteſt to you, that this ſatisfaction, and
that of witneſſing her real ſituation, (which
| hoped to do, without her knowing I was
near her) were the only gratifications I

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240 DESMOND.

propoſed to myſelf ; for many days I en-

joyed it, and was content; nor did I vo-
luntarily {eek any other ſatisfaction.

There are, ſays St. Preux, in thoſe
enchanting letters of the incomparable
Rouſſeau, but two diviſions of the world,
that where Julie is, and that where ſhe is
not! I forget the French, and I have not
the book here To the force of the ſenti-
ment, however, I bear witneſs—To me the
world is divided into only two parts; or
rather, to me, it is all a blank where Ge-
raldine is not- Vet, my friend, is this de-
claration no contradiction to what I often,
and particularly, of late, afferted, that J
have now (if indeed I ever was weak enough
to indulge it) not the remoteſt hope of her
everrewarding an attachment, with which,
as I know it is wrong, I wiſh not that ſhe
ſhould even be acquainted— But, if you
have ever truly loved, can you, Bethel,
blame me for indulging that delicious,
and ſurely that blameleſs ſenſation, which

is derived from watching over the peace and
5 ſafety

DESMOND 2

ſafety of a beloved object, from whom we
do not even hope a return? While I
could open my eyes ina morning and ſee
the ſun's firſt beams enlighten the oppoſite
heath, and fall on the roof of Geraldine's
habitation, making its high chaſters of
heavy, antique chimneys, viſible, among
the firs and elms that ſurround it I uſed to
ſay to myſelf,” “ there ſhe is There, ſhe
will ſoon awaken to fulfil her maternal du-
ties; to cultivate, to ſtrengthen, or adorn,
the pureſt of minds, by ſome uſeful or elc-
gant occupation.—She is, if not happy, at
leaſt tranquil ; and now and then, perhaps,
beſtows a thought, and a kind wiſh, on
her friend Deſmond.”

Indeed, Bethel, with this ſatisfaction,
(romantic, and even ridiculous as it
would, I know, be thought by thoſe who
could not underſtand the nature of my af-
{eQtion for Geraldine) I ſhould have been
perfectly content, and having for a little
while indulged” myſelf in it, I ſhould have

Vo L. II. M ſought

* — = oh *- —
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242 DE SM ON v.

ſought you at Bath, have made you a con-

feſſion of my folly, and then, after having
given a few days to friendſhip, have again
gone back to France; for England is not
my country, when I can hear only, in

whatever company I go into, of Geral.

dine's unhappineſs, and the folly, extra-
vagancies, and utter ruin of her huſband,
This was my project; I lingered, how.
ever, from day to day, finding happineſs,
I could not eaſily determine to relinquiſh,
in catching, now and then, at a window,
which J fancied to be that of the room
where ſhe ſlept, the diſtant view of a figure,
which I perſuaded myſelf was her's— The
window was only partly ſeen ; the tall elms,
which grow round a ſort of court, imme-
diately before the houſe, hid it half, and
though, when: the ſetting ſun played on
the caſement, I could more diſtinctly ſee
it; 1 found, that if I would really ſatisfy
myſelf with the certain view of Geraldine,
J muſt ſeek ſome ſpot,- where, from its
| elevation,

DESMOND. 4243

clevation, I could, by means of a ſmall
pocket teleſcope, have an nnn
view of theſe windows.

I confined myſelf, however, to the, houſe
all day—you know I never am weary of
ſolitude, nor am ever deſtitute of employ-
ment; theſe days, therefore, appeared
neither tedious nor unpleaſant, ſince, at

their cloſe, I was to be engaged in ſeeking

for the means of ſatisfying my wiſhes; and
fince I could, as they paſſed, look out of

my low and narrow caſements towards the
habitation of Geraldine, and „ee
myſelf “ She is there.

At length, in the woods that Wire the
feet of theſe hills, which would, about
London, be accounted inacceſſible moun :
tains, I found a little, ſhady» knoll, to
which the guſh of innumerable ſtreams of
water attracted mel aſcended by the al-
moſt perpendicular path, which ſeems to
have been traced only by boys in their ex-
curſions after birds, or by the ſheep that
ſometimes feed here; and reaching the top,

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244 DESMOND.

J had the ſatis faction to find, that though
it was ſurrounded on all ſides by trees, ſo
as to form the moſt perfect concealment,
they were low towards the top; and that
a little rocky crag, that hung over the
twiſted roots of an old thorn and a blight.
ed aſh, afforded me a view of many of the
windows of Geraldine's reſidence; at a
greater diſtance, indeed, than from my
cottage, but much leſs obſcured by the
intervening objects Here, then, I reſolv-
ed to paſs ſome part of all the few days
that I had determined to ſtay here.

Four days fince, I was returning, about
one o'clock, from this my morning occu-
pation, when the heat of the morning, and
the freſhneſs of the graſs in that part of the
wood, through which I was paſting, in-
duced me to throw myſelf on the ground,
and continue the peruſal of a book I had
with me, on which I was extremely intent,
when I heard the prattle of children, but
as I had often ſeen ſuch little ruſtic wan-
derers i in the woods, I heeded not the cir-

cumſtance,

DESMON D. 245

cumſtance; till ſuddenly, Flora running
forward, I heard an infant ſcream at her
approach I raiſed my eyes, and ſaw a
maid-ſervant with the two elder children
of Geraldine l ſtarted up to prevent the
little girl's being more alarmed by the dog,
and as I wiſhed not to betray myſelf, I en-
quired the name of the children, yet, 'in a

way ſo confuſed, that, I believe, the ſer-

vant thought my manner very ſtrange—1
ſuppoſed it impoſſible, after an abſence of
twelve months, that George could recollect
me, but he certainly did, though my name
was no longer familiar to him; for, after
looking at me earneſtly a moment, he re-
turned my embraces, and even hung round
my neck—What delight! to preſs to my
heart this lovely little fellow, ſo dear to
me on account of his mother I was fo
charmed with him, and with the eager-
neſs he ſhewed to continue with me, that
| am afraid, I more than once forgot my
precaution 3; however, the children, at
length, left me. I imagined the ſervant

M 3 would

would conclude, that it was ſome perſon
of the neighbourhood, and would think
no more about it—1 continued my uſual
rambles therefore in the woods, but not
at thoſe hours when it was probable I

ſhould again meet them.
- Convinced that Geraldine was leſs un-

comfortable in her new ſituation than my

tears had led me to ſuppoſe ; having been
now above a week in the neighbourhood,
and fearing my remaining there much
longer might raiſe ſome ſuſpicions, that
I would not for millions of worlds excite
I began to think of quitting it, and had
onee or twice determined 'to ftay only one
day longer; yet, when the day of depar-
ture came, put it off till the next— But,
on Tkurſday, I reſorted to the ſpot, where
I uſually paſſed the evening; the weather
was uncommonly lovely—I had, during
the preceding day, taken my walk, at an
hour when I fancied Geraldine was at her
dinner, round her garden, and was effec-

tually concealed by a thick hedge of cut
N ever-

DESMOND 247

evergreens; but I was happy enough to
be miſtaken, as to her hour of dining
She came out with her children I ſaw her
within ten paces of me—She fpoke chear-
fully heard once more that enchanting
voice—l dared hardly breathe, leaſt ſhe
ſhould be alarmed ;- but, as ſoon as I could
eſcape unperceived, I crofſed among the

high furze and hollow ways of the com-

mon, and returned home by a road remote
from that which led from her refidence to
my cottage. | (+1.
The delicious beben however,
which the fight of Geraldine had left on.
my mind, the uncommon. beauty of the
evening, united to that of the ſcene, con-
tributed to ſoothe my mind -I fat down;
and began to read; but every thing that
took my thoughts from her was inſipid—1
let my book fall, and fell into a refoerie—
But, I own, my . dear friend, that the
pleaſing dreams in which I was indulging
myſelf were interrupted by the recollec-
tion of your frequent remonſtrances, and
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248 DESMON D.

particularly by that queſtion which you
have ſo often repeated—* What I meant
by all this?“ My heart, however, could
anſwer without heſitation, that I meant no
injury to any human being—Nor, unwor-

thy and undeſerving as Verney is, would

I wiſh to rob him of the affections of his
wife, admitting it poſſible he could poſſeſs
them—Thus far my conſcience clearly
acquitted me; (would to heaven it could
do ſo m every other circumſtance of my

life) and I had ſettled it with myſelf, that

while I avoided giving any ſuch evidence
of my attachment to her, as might tend to
caſt a reflection on the fair and unimpeach-
ed fame of the lovely woman for-whom 1
felt it ; I might yield to its influence with
impunity—1I know you will declare againſt
any ſuch inference ; but I had convinced
myſelf I was right, and. lamented that I
had ever left England, under the idea of
curing myſelf of a paſſion, which conſti-
tuted the charm of my exiſtence ; fince,
by doing ſo, I have, without loſing what-

eve

DESMOND wo

erer uneaſineſs may occafionally embitter
that attachment, created for myſelf. others,
which will not ſoon be diſſipated, —lo theſe
ſort of contemplations, L had. ſome. time
been loſt, when ſuddenly my dog rouſed
me I looked up, and ſaw Geraldine her-
ſelf, who, having perceived me, was haſti-
ly retreating from the icht of A e
in a place ſo remote.

Could I, Bethel, then, — 937 —
to her? lt was impoſſible—1 flew forwards
to meet her—T apologized for the alarm
had occaſioned her entreated leave to
attend her home, though, when due. AC»
cepted my aſſiſtance to conduct her dawn
the declivity, on the ſummit of which We
met, I trembled ſo, that I could with dif,
ficulty ſupport myſelf—She ſeemed amaz-
ed at meeting me; but after ſome time
recovered herſelf, and aſked, in the way,
of converſation, ſeveral of thoſe. queſtions,
which, from any other perſon, or in any.
other ſituation, would have been indiffer-
ent ; but I could not anſwer them with,

Mc =

250 DESMON D.
the caſe the put them; and I am fure 1
behaved like an ideot, for, on a ſudden,

eee

q the grew cold, and reſerved, and, I fan- f
{I cied, wiſhed me away, though J could not a
4 collect eourage enough to go—At length, ir
4 conſcious of the fooliſh figure I made, fitting
3 filently oppoſite to her, and afraid of en-
3 tering into any converſation, leaſt it ſhould
4 lead to topics I could not determine to
4 ſpeak upon, I collected reſolutivn enough

J to with her a good night, and aſk leave to
A ſee her again to-day—This ſhe granted in
| the ſame diſtant way that ſhe would have
granted it to a common acquaintance, and
T left her, half frantic, to think that I am
perfectly indifferent to her, though, three
hours before, I was declaring to myſelf
that I harboured not a with to be otherwiſe.
It is now near eleven o'clock—I find |
have an opportunity of ſending this to the
' poſt—T diſpatch it, therefore, and haſten
to take one look, one laſt look, for ſuch,
indeed, I mean it ſhould be; and if I can

gain courage to talk to her as to a fiſter, dete
who

DE SMO ND. 251

who can feel for, and pity my errors and
my weakneſs, I think, that whatever I ſuf-
fer in tearing myſelf from her, I ſhall yet,
after I have once got over the pangs of an
interview, which may be the laſt I ſhall
enjoy for years, be more eaſy than I have
been for many months. Adieu, dear Be-
thel-—I. feel as anxious as if the fate of my
whole life depended on the next three
hours; but E it docs.

Your's, faithfully,

LIONEL DESMOND.

P. S. I ſhall not, certainly, ſtay here
above a day longer—I think not—As after
I have taken leave of her, upon what pre-
tence can J linger in the neighbourhood ?
yet, as 1 have not determined, whether I
ſhall reach you at Bath, by the croſs-country
road, or go firſt to London, and for a day
or two into Kent; in ſhort, as I have not
determined - what I ſhall do; and, proba-

M 6 bly

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' 252 DESMOND.

bly, ſhall fluctuate 4 Waverly, till the
hour of my ſetting forth—You may as
well direct hither ; becauſe I ſhall leave
orders at the poſt-houſe, whither my let-
ters are to be forwarded. Who ſaid, that
ſorrow had anticipated the injury of time ;
and that the beautiful and once admired
Geraldine had loſt all her perſonal attrac-
tions ?—To me, the appears a thouſand
times lovelier than ever; and was it mere-
ly her form and face, to which my heart
yields homage, it would be more than

' ever her captive.

LET.

D ES MION DL 253
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1 HAVE ben Nr. Deſmond again,

my Fanny; and if he had before à claim

to my regard, it is now heightened into as
much eſteem as I can feel for any human
being—Yes! he is unhappy; and it is to
me, as to a ſiſter and a friend; he commu-

«nicates his unhappineſs —Ah ! what would

I not do to relieve from its ſolicitude, that
noble and ingenuous heart, which places
ſuch confidence in me ?—But, of this,
enough—1I only ſay thus much, to vindi-
cate him from my unjuſt and improper ſuſ-
picions, of having come here clandeftinely,
on account of the foreign lady, of whom
we heard ſo many idle reports. Deſmond
is alone; and quits this neighbourhood to-
day. —He talks of viſiting his friend, Be-

I thel,

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254 D ESM ON D.

thel, who is at Bath; and ſoon afterwards

of returning to France—If he goes to
Bath you will ſee bim; but I, perhaps,
ſhall ſee him no more for ſome years — As
thoſe years, with me, are, probably, to
paſs in this remore ſolitude ; where, it
would be violating the common rules,
which the world expects us to obſerve,
were I to receive his vifits, how innocent
and brotherly ſoever, they would aſſuredly
be.

While I yet write, he croſſes the bridge on
horſeback ; and George, who is aſtoniſhing-
ly fond of him, has run out, with his maid,
to meet him—Deſmond gets off; he puts
the dear little boy on his horſe; and, with
one arm round him, he makes Peggy lead
the horſe forward I hear the laugh of in-
fantine delight even hither—There is no-
thing, Fanny, in my opinion, ſo graceful,
ſo enchanting, in a young man, as this
tenderneſs towards children It becomes
every man, but none more than Deſmond;

who is never ſo amiable in my eyes, as

when

25 3 a. — —= al Tre}

DESMOND 2355

when he is playing with George - And my
little girl, ſhe now lifps out his name; and
though ſhe has ſeen him only twice, is a
candidate for a ſeat on his knee; and turns
towards him, thoſe ſweet blue eyes, with-
out that penſive look that her delicate
countenance generally expreſſes; as if ſhe
knew, even in baby hood, her fate to be
marked with ſorrow—But my noiſy boy,

and his friend, are at the door. I hear

Deſmond ſay, he is come to bid him good-
by; and the child enquires, why he goes,
and when he will come again.—I muſt go
to wiſh him a good journey, and deliver
him from the Intle, wild interrogatories
of his play-fellow.—

He is gone! and I fe@ ridiculouſly low
I ſay, ridiculouſly, though, I truſt, I do not
give way to an improper ſentiment - But
why ſhould it be wrong to admire and
eſteem an excellent and amiable man,

from whom 1 have received more than

brotherly kindneſs ?—Why, indeed, ſhould
I queſtion the propriety of this regard, be-
3 cauſe

256 DES MOND.

cauſe I am married? Does that prevent
our ſeeing and loving excellence where-
ever found? —and why ſhould it? —
To diſguiſe theſe ſentiments, would be to
acknowledge them to be criminal! ra-
ther glory in avowing them, becauſe I am

conſcious they are juſt, pure, and honora-
ble. — Why, indeed, ſhould I hide, or

- apologize, for the tears I even now ſhed,

when I think that I may never ſee Deſmond
again ?— What a treaſure is a friend, fo
difintereſted, ſo noble-minded, as he is:
And why ſhould I not regret him ?—How
ſoothing, to a ſick heart in ſolitude and

ſadneſs, is the voice of kindneſs, ad-

miniſtering the conſolations, of reaſon and
good ſenſe, dignifad with all the graces of
a poliſhed mind—Such have I heard from
Deſmond, in our laſt conference ; and can
I help regretting, that I Call hear them
no more ?

But it is not to you, my Fanny, I
ought to excuſe myſelf, (if, indeed, it

could be neceſſary at all,) for my regard;
nay,

C

—_

:. wy er A

— „ ww .

DESMOND. 257

nay, I will call it my affection, for our
admirable friend—Nor, though I feel his
departure as a privation, juſt at this mo-
ment, can I lament having ſeen him.—
I find that there is a poſlibility that 1
may be of uſe to one of his friends, in ſome
diſagreeable circumſtance ; and with what
delight ſhall I embrace an opportunity

of being uſeful to any of his acquaintance

or connexions.— Farewell, my dear ſiſter
I am unable to write a long letter to- day
I will go to my books, and to my walk in
the wood ; for thoſe are reſources that,
I find, ſoothe me to tranquillity ; while
the complaints of George, that Mr. Deſ-
mond is gone, and that he ſhall not ride
any more, and his little innocent-queſtions,
when he will come again? and if he is
gone to ſee papa? quite overcome my ſpi-
rits. I will write a longer letter in a day
or two, though I ſhall have now very
little to ſay,

June

258 DE SMON P.

June 10th, fix in the Evening.

What is to become of me now ?—An ex-
preſs from the neighbouring poſt-town,
accompanied by a French ſervant, has juſt
delivered me the encloſed letter from Mr.
Verney—I encloſe it; for I have not
ſtrength or time to copy 1tt—Oh ! Fanny,
what ſhall I—ought I to do ?—ln truth, I
know not- How unfortunate, that Deſ-
mond is gone; and that I cannot have the
benefit of his advice.—Gracious heaven
What does fate intend to do with this
miſerable, perſecuted being?

LE T-

Q

DESMOND. 239

LETTER XVI

Paills, May 22, 1791»
MY DEAR,

M very worthy friends, Monfieur le
Duc de Romagnecourt, and Monſieur le

Chevalier de Boiſbelle, are, this day, ſet-

ting off for England on a journey, relative
to the affairs of the King of France, their
maſter—They are returning to Paris di-
rectly; and having heard me expreſs a
wiſh to fee you here, have undertaken to
eſcort you over; and the Duke himſelf at”
tends you with this—I defire, therefore,
that you will ſet off with him, as. ſoon as
you conveniently can As to the children,
I think, travelling with them will be incon-
venient to you; and ſhould ſuppoſe your
mother would take them for the time you
are abroad; or, perhaps, you might leave
them very ſafe in the care of their ſervants.

* Encloſed in the foregoing. *

260 DESMOND.

—You will do as you like about bringing
ſervants for yourſelf; but, I think, you
will find Engliſh women only encumbran-
ces, and may hire French maid ſervants
here; as to men, as we ſhall live altoge-
ther at the Duc de Romagnecourt's, his
ſuite of ſervants will be ours. I ſhall ex-
pet the pleaſure of your arrival with im-
patience, where all things are going on
well for the ſuppreſſion of the preſent vile
proceedings.

I am, my dear,
Your's, affectionately,

RICHARD VERNEY.

I repeat my queſtion, my fiſter—What
ought I to do ?—Good heaven ! what an
inconfiderate man is Mr. Verney ; and, I
am ſorry to add, how unfeeling !—Leave
my children !—Accompany ſtrangers to
Paris !==The former 1 will not do; and
ſurely I ought not to do the latter; but
on ſomething I muſt determine; for, 1

under-

une
Wh.

DES MOND. 261

underſtand, from the French ſervant, to
whom I have been ſpeaking, that this
Duke is actually waiting at the inn,
at the neighbouring town, and expects
to be aſked hither — What wildneſs—
what madneſs, in Mr. Verney, to pro-
poſe ſuch a ſcheme !—Whither can I turn
me ?—Oh ! would to heaven Deſmond was
not gone Write to me inſtantly—Yet
how ſhall I put off my determination till
I receive your anſwer? - How evade go-
ing ?—For ſurely I ought not to go.—l
believe it will be beſt to write a letter of
excuſe to this French nobleman ; ſaying,
how impoſſible it is for me to undertake a
journey, ſo ſuddenly.—Surely Mr. Verney
cannot mean But I will not diſtract my-
ſelf with uſeleſs conjectures, with ſuppoſi ·
tions more tormenting than the miſerable
realities. I ſend this to the town, on purpoſe
to have it reach you by the earlieſt poſt,
but I tremble ſo, that I fear it is hardly
legible. The Chevalier de Boiſbelle has

| not,

262 DESMOND.

not, I find, taken the trouble to come
down hither with his noble friend. Sure.
ly he cannot be gone in ſearch —— Bur,
again, I am bewieldered and diſtracted.—
Pity, and inſtantly relieve, your very un-
happy,

GERALDINE,

LE T-

YT
* Ll

1

DESMOND. 263

LETTER XIX.
TO MR. BETHEL,

Roſs, June 11, 1591,
BY this time, my friend, you expect

me at Bath; and there I ſhould certainly

have been on Monday next, if I had not
been, by a moſt ſingular and unexpected

accident, ſtopped here.

I took leave of Geraldine yeſterday
morning—l1 left her fituated in a place,
where if ſhe enjoyed nat that affluence and
proſperity to which ſhe has been ac-
cuſtomed, ſhe was, I thought, tranquil
and content.—She bade me adieu with the
tendereſt friendſhip, yet with that guarded
expreſſion of it that her ſituation demanded.
I bleffed her for the generous kindneſs ſhe
ſhewed me; I reſpected the reſerve her cir-
cumſtances made it proper for her to adopt.
— I chought by her eyes—and were there

| ever

*

264 DES MOND.

ever eyes more expreſſive? that ſhe was
ſorry to ſee me depart, yet knew that it
was proper I ſhould go.— Such ſenſations,
in a more violent degree, I alſo felt.—To

tear myſelf from her was now more diffi-

cult than I ever yet found it; but I knew
it would be injurious to her to ſtay; and
never yet did my propenſity to ſelf-indul.
gence conquer my ſenſe of what I owed to
the diſintereſted tenderneſs I bear her.

It was neceſſary then to go—and I dared
not tell her how cruelly I felt the neceſſity;
I affected ſome degree of chearfulneſs ; I
played with her lovely boy, and tried to
diſguiſe, though I believe ineffectually,
the contending ſenſations with which I
was agitated—at length I left her. As J
looked back, I beheld her at the window
as long as ſhe could ſee me, for the little
fellow would not be content to quit it
while I was in fight ; and ſhe held him in
her arms.—At length the deſcent of the
bridge hid her from my view.—I then

haſtened on to this place, which is about
Ten

DESMOND. 265
ten miles from het habitation; far hither

I had directed my portmanteau- trunk to

be ſent from my cottage; and here an
horſe, I had purchaſed ſome days before,
waited for me As I found it eafier and
pleaſanter to have an horſe of my own,
now that I am able to ride, than to go in
a poſt-chaiſe or by any other conveyance,

Al was then giving ſome directions about

the forwarding my trunk, and was juſt go-
ing to mount my new purehaſe in the
yard of the inn; when a berlin, apparently
belonging to a foreigner of diſtinction, at-
tended by three French or Swifs ſervants,
drove to the door—an appearance, which
though about the affairs of others. I have
not much curiofity, I own excited it
{trongly.-l ſtopped therefore, and ſaw
alighting from the carriage, a man about
three or four-and-forty ; he ſeemed to be
a perſon of rank ; but he wore, with ſome
ſtrong ſymptoms of his own conſequence,
that bewildered look which I have often
obſerved in travellers who are unacquainted

Vol. II. N with

266 DE SM ON D.

with the language and manners of the
people they are among. He ſpoke French
to the landlord and the waiter, who not
having the leaſt idea of what he ſaid, were
as much diſtreſſed as he was; a perſon,
however, ſoon after made his appearance,
who ſeemed to be a ſort of travelling com.
panion, and who undertook to be his in-
terpreter; but ſo miſerably did he execute
this office, that the honeſt Welchman and
his people, were more puzzled by his in-
comprehenſible Engliſh, than they had
before been by the French of his ſuperior.
The ſhewy equipage, and the number
of attendants, however, raiſed ſo much
reſpect in the breaſts of the landlord and
his houſehold, that they were extremely
defirous of accommodating their great
cuſtomers, if they could but find out what
they wiſhed for.
The firſt idea that occurs to an Engliſh-
man, on ſuch an occaſion, is a good ſubſtan-
tial dinner; this, therefore, by ſuch figns

as he thought moſt likely to elucidate his
meaning,

DESMOND. 267

meaning, the maſter of the inn propoſed ;
and as there is a language in all countries by
which eating or loving may be expreſſed,
this was at length aſſented to. The gen-
tleman attendant, or, as the landlord called
him, t'other Mounſeer, was ſhewn into the
larder ; which, though it was not quite ſo
well furniſhed as that of the Bear at Bath,

or ſome others of equal fame, yet appeared

very ſatisfactory; ; and a certain number
of diſhes were ordered to be prepara: to
the ſatisfaction of both parties.

As there was ſomething exceſſively
comique in the diſtreſs of the landlord and
his wife, who could get no more intelli-
gence from the ſtrange ſervants than from
their maſter, I could not forbear ſtaying a
little to be amuſed with it. I had nothing

to do better, and was indifferent whether I

ſat out before dinner or afterwards, on my
folitary journey: but I had yet another mo -
tive for ſtaying than to witneſs this odd ſcenes
| thought I might be of ſome uſe to theſ%
foreigners, by explaining to the people

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268 DESMON OD.

what they really wanted, or what houſe
they came in ſearch of; for they enquired
for ſome place or perſon in the neighbour-
hood, about whom or which, the people
could comprehend nothing.

The landlord, however, ſeemed fully
perſuaded, that after ſo good a dinner as
had been ordered, matters muſt clear up ;
infinite, therefore, was the buſtling and
fuſſing to have this ready,—The weather

was hot; and the landlord, with his wig

half off, a good round, plump Welch head,
a fiery red waiſtcoat, and his pompadour
Sunday coat, exerted his broad ſquat figure
to the utmoſt ; while his wite put, on her
beſt plaited cap with pink ribbands; a
fiue flouriſhed ſhawl; and a pea green
flounced ſtuffed petticoat, under a flowered
cotton gown, drawn up; and, notwith-
ſtanding this elegance, (all to do honour to
the Britiſh females before outlandiſh gen-
tlemen, ) ſhe was as anxiouſly ſuperintend-
ing the roaſting and boiling, as if ſhe was
* in her common array for the

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DESMOND. 269

ordinary of a market day, on which the
cuſtom of her houſe depended.

At length the dinner was ready, and the
landlord marched in with it; but he had
not remained long in the room before he
left it, and came puffing into that where
I fat, in redoubled conſternation.— Oh
lord, Sir,” ſaid he, „do you underſtand
French ?—Lord, Sir, if I ben't quite, as
one may ſay, at a non-pluſh ; not one ſyl-
lable more can I make out from that there
gentleman that fancies how he talk Engliſh,
than that he is come to fetch away ſome
lady, that he calls Madam ſomething, and
will have it that ſhe's here.-Lord, Sir,
I'm quite floundered for my ſhare, and
knows no more what he'd be at, than my
little Nan there in the cradle. -I wiſh, for
my ſhare, folks would ſpeak Engliſh; for
why ?—ſuch lingo as theſe foreigners uſe
is of no ſervice in the world, and only
confounds people, ready to drive them
crazy—Then they gabble ſo plaguy faſt,
that there's no catching a word by the way,

N 3 even

270 D ESM ON D.
even to gueſs a little by what they would
be at.— ir, if your honour has a ſmatter-

ing of their tongue, and would not think

it too great a condeſcenſion, ſeeing they
are Frenchmen, to make yourſelf known
to them, *twould be doing me a great ſer-
vice, if ſo be you'd juſt give me an item of
their intentions—for my wife ſhe's teizing
me like a crazy woman, to know if they
want beds made up, and if they do, whe-
ther their beds are to be made like as ours
are — I ſays toher, why how the murrain
now Jenn, ſhould I know, but PII go aſk
yon gentleman, perhaps he can let us in to
the right of the thing, which to be ſure l
ſhould be glad of ; for, Sir, they ſay that
one of theſe is a duke.” To ſtop this ha-
rangue, which ſeemed not otherwiſe to be
near its concluſion, I affured my landlord
that I knew a little of their tongue ; and,
if he would order one of their ſervants to
me, I would ſend them in a meſſage, ex-
preſſive of my wiſh to be of aſe to them it
in my power,

In

DES MOND. 277
In conſequence of this, their anſwer in-
formed me, that the Duc de Romagnecourt

was much honoured and flattered by my
attention, and requeſted the happineſs of

ſeeing me. Judge, dear Bethel, of the

aſtoniſhment, the mixture of wonder, in-
dignation and confuſion, with which 1
learned that Mr. Verney is become the in-

timate friend of this Duc de Romagne-

court; that it is with him he reſides at
Paris; and, that it is under his eſcort he
has ſent for Geraldine to join him there.
If I had heard that I was, at one blow,
reduced from affluence, to depend on the
bounty of upſtart greatneſs dependence
which of all other ſpecies is moſt hidebus
to my imagination; if I had been told chat
I had no longer a friend in the world;
nay, that Bethel himſelf had forſaxen me,
I think I ſhould not have felt a ſenſation
of greater anguiſh and amazement.— Mon-
ſieur D'Auberval enquired of me if I knew
Madame Verney ; though I ſaw by the
Duke's manner, that he was the perſon in-

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272 DE SMON D.

tereſted. I knew not what to anſwer; and
my embarraſſment muſt have been viſible,
if they had not imputed part of it, to my
natural diſſience as an Engliſhman; and (as
they thought} an Engliſhman of inferior
rank; for they ſaw I had no ſervants with
me, and feemed to wender how a perſon
who travelled in his own country without a
ſuite,” ſhould be ſo perfectly verſed in the

language of theirs. —E now, however, un-

derſtood the purpoſes of their journey; and
under pretence of making fome enquiries,
I withdrew to confider of what I ought
to do. |
To intetfere between Geraldine and her
huſband (1 cannot write his name with
patience) was, at leaft, improper—To give
her notice that I was ſtill near her, was
impertinent; and making myſelf ridicu-
ouſly of confequence, in an affair where
my protection was not, perhaps, requiſite.
wo This Duc de Romagnecourt, though he
had the air of a veteran debaucht; and,
though his converſation, little as I heard
of

©
|
|
|

DESMOND. 273

of it, confirmed the idea his appearance im-

preffed—might be a married man; a man of
reſpectability and honour; at leaſt he was
one to whom it was evident Mr. Verney
choſe to entruſt his wife; and what right
had I to interfere ? How could 1 indeed do
fo, without its being known that I had been
privately refiding in her immediate neigh-
bourhood; and encouraging a belief, that
1 had ſome fancied authority, to exert that
influence which only a brother or ſome very
near relation, is fuppoſed to have a
right to exert.— The more I conſidered the
man, this Due de Romagnecourt, his be-
haviour, his converſation ; the more im-
proper, nay, impoſſible it ſeemed for Ge-
raldine to ſet out with him on ſuch a jour-
ney ; yet I did not fee how I could; with
propriety, ſave her from it by my: dire&
interference. I therefore determined to
give the Duc de Romagnecourt the di-
rection he requeſted me to procure for
him ; to truſt to the firſt reception of ſuch
a propoſal to the fenſe and prudence of Ge-

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274 DES MOND.

raldine, and to await where I was the
event of the letter which, by a ſervant of
his own, he ſent to her from her huſband.
It contained, as the Duke informed me, an
1njunction to ſet off immediately with him
for Paris.—I affected merely to know there
was ſuch a lady as Madame Verney in the
neighbourhood ; and, having now made up
my mind, I returned to theſe worthy friends
of Verney's; gave them the addreſs they
defired, and ſaw the French valet ſet out
accompanied by a guide from the inn.—lIt
is impoſſible to deſcribe to you what I felt
while theſe men were abſent ; nor the effort
with which; I ſupported the converſation
that the Duc de Romagnecourt invited me

to engage in.— However, I commanded

myſelf as much as poſſible, as it was abſo-
lutely neceſſary to prevent any ſuſpicion of
my being particularly intereſted for Mrs.
Verney; and I wiſhed to lead him to ſpeak
of her, which he perhaps would not haye
done with ſo little reſerve, if he had ſuſ-

pected that I was acquainted with her.
It

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DESMOND. 255

It is not very difficult, after having ſeen a
good deal of this beſt of all poſſible worlds,
to enter into much of à man's character,
even from a firſt interview. I ſoon learned
that the Duc de Romagnecourt, was a man
of very high faſhion, and very great for-
tune in France; that he was very much
confided in by the court, and of courſe:
extremely averſe to the elaims of the peo-

ple; that he execrated the ſtruggle. they

had ſo ſucceſsfully made for their liberties,
and now viſited England with a view to-
engage in favour of an oppoſite ſyſtem,
(which he ſaid, would ſoon: have e defſus*
again ;). thoſe, among us whoſe: intereſt it
was moſt effectually to cruſh every attempt
at reform.—He hinted, that in his way
through London, he had ſucceeded in
this negociation beyond his hopes; and
that he was to have a farther confirma-
tion of the ſupport that had been pro-
miſed him on his return, which he un

4 4

„The upper bk
N 6 poſed

275 DE SMON D.

poſed immediately, avec la charmiante femme,
whom he expected to conduct.
Proud, profligate, and perfidious, accuſ-
tomed to entertain high ideas of felf-impor-
tance z and ſeldom finding any of his in-
elinations refiſted, becauſe he had power
and money to purchaſe their indulgence,
the Duc de Romagnecourt was but little
difpofed to conceal his principles or his
views,—] learned that when he was in
England fome few months fince, he ſaw
and admired Geraldine, to whom he had
then been introduced by her huſband.—I
underſtood that Verney was under very
great pecuniary obligations to this man,
who now actually ſupports him in France;
and the inference I drew from the know-
ledge I thus obtained of the character of
the one, and the neceſſities of the other,
was too dreadful; I recoiled with abhor-
rence from its immediate impreſſion, but
ſtill it returned with undiminiſhed anguiſh,
and every word utte tered by the Duc de
| Romagne-

DESMOND. 277

Romagnecourt, ſerved only to confirm my
apprehenfions, and encreaſe my uneaſineſs.

determined that, whatever might be the
conſequence, no conſideration upon earth
ſhoutd induce me to quit the country, while
this moſt illuſtrious perſonage remained in
it; and having made that refolution, I
awaited, with as little viſible anxiety as poſ-
fible, the return of the — who
were ſent to Geraldine. |

I had, indeed, very little e far
any other exertion, than that of patience ;
for the Duke, with all the forward conſe-
quence of which we accuſe (and ſometimes
juſtly accuſe) his countrymen, entered,
nothing doubting my approbation, into a
hiſtory of himſelf— His rank, his fortune,
his feats, were deſeribed—nor was he
more guarded on the ſubjects of his poli-
tics, or his amours.

In regard to the firſt, he was, I found,
a moſt inveterate enemy to the revolution—
Deprecated the idea of any degree of free-
dom being allowed to the inferior ranks of

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278 DESMON D.

men in any country ; yet owned that he
had, with the duplicity that was adopted
by many of his compatriots, appeared to
yield to a torrent they could not reſiſt;
but while they ſeemed to go with the
ſtream, he hinted, that meaſures : were
taking effectually to turn its courſe; and
he triumphed in the diſcomfiture of the
reptiles, who had thus dared to aſpire to the
privilege of freemen; and ſaw, in his
mind's eye, the leaders of this obnoxious
canaille languiſhing out their miſerable
lives in the moſt dreary dungeons of the
new- erected Baſtile—Such was the colour
of his politics. His love, ever ſucceſsful,
and without thorns, was, as he repreſent-
ed it, toujours couleur de roſ. He ſcrupled
not to hint, in terms that could not be
miſunderſtood, that he had been very
highly favoured by ſome of the moſt ex-
alted ladies of the French court ; that he

was an univerſal favourite ; and that there
was no woman in this country, or his own,

who could long remain inſenſible of his
powers

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DES MONDO. 279
powers of pleaſing, when he choſe to make
a point of gaining their favours. In this
ſtyle— (and I liſtened to him with con
tempt that ſtifled my indignation)—he ran
on for ſome time ; till the wine he drank,
much heavier *than that he was uſually
accuſtomed to, began to have a very viſible
effect on him—His companion, a Mon-
fieur d'Auberval, (though I underſtand
another perſon came over with him) was
even more inebriated than himſelf And I
learned, from whatthey together difcourſed,
that Verney had no intention of meeting
his wife at Paris, but was gotng to Metz
with ſome other French noblemen deeply
embarked in the cauſe, whatever it is, that
now engages their intriguing ſpirit ; and
that Mrs. Verney was, after ſome ſtay at
a magnificent ſeat of the Due de Romagne-
court's, about five leagues from Paris, to
follow her huſband to Metz—In ſhort,
dreadful as the confirmation of my fears
was, I had no longer to doubt but that

Geraldine

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280 DESMOND.

Geraldine was ſold by the wretch who
dares call her his wife.

Nothing but the reflection of what I
owed to Geraldine, could have reſtrained

me from expreſſing the indignation I felt

Alt was, however, neceſſary to diflemble
— am a wretched hypocrite ; nor could.
I even in this emergency have ſucceeded,
if my companions had been very accurate
obſervers—At length, after ſome hours of
ſuch tortures, as I thought it hardly poſ-
fible to feel and exiſt; the men, who had
been ſent to Geraldine with her hufband's
letter, returned, and brought to Monſieur
de Romagnecourt a note, written in
French, of which this is the ſubſtance.

«« Mrs. Verney preſents her compliments
to the Duc de Romagnecourt ; and, as it
is quite out of her power, on account of
ill health, and from other circumſtances,
to leave England immediately ; and equal.
ly ſo, to quit her children, who muſt ne-
ceflarily be very inconvenient companions

to

/ r a —__

DESMOND. 281

to him; ſhe muſt beg leave to decline
the honor he intends her of a place in his
carriage on his return to Paris; and the
letter with which ſhe takes the liberty of
troubling him to Mr. Verney, will account
to him for her delaying her journey.

«« Mrs. Verney is ſorry the ſmall houſe
and eſtabliſhment ſhe has here, makes

it impoſſible for her to receive the Due de

Romagnecourt at her preſent refidence ;
and obliges her to take this method of

_ thanking him for the civility he intended

her,”
Bridge-foot Manor-farm,

June 11th, 179r.

Though the purport of this note was ex-
actly what I expeRed from the preſence of
mind and good fenſe of Geraldine; and
though I was relieved from my firſt anxious
apprehenſions, as to the terror ſhe would
be in on receiving it, I had yet but too
many fears to contend with. I ſaw that
Monſieur de Romagnecourt was mortified
for the moment, but by no means fo much
diſcouraged as to defiſt from his purſuit z

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282 DES MOND.

and after reading the note over twice or

thrice, admiring the elegance of the writ—

ing, and the purity of the French, which,
he ſaid, was ſuch, as not one in a thou—

ſand of his countrywomen could have pro-

duced, he ſtrutted about the room, though
with ſomewhat leſs dignity than uſual, for

he could hardly ſtand; and then calling her
a lovely prude, he determined to try, the
next morning, what his own irrefiſtible

preſence could do towards thawing the ice

of this cold Engliſh beauty; and, in this

diſpoſition, I left him at one in the morn-
ing. | 1
I ſaw that any attempt to diſſuade him

from ſuch a ſcheme, would be fruitleſs ;

and, indeed, I thought it beſt to let ber
poſitive and perſonal refuſal convince him
at once, that his preſumptuous and inſo-
lent propoſal muſt be abortive—Still it
was painful to me, to think that Geral-
dine muſt be inſulted by hearing it.—1
knew, that elevated as her mind 1s, above

\ thoſe frivolous and unworthy apprehen-

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DESMOND 283

ſions, to which women fancy it an amia-
ble weakneſs to yield; yet, that ſuch an
addreſs, from ſuch a man, in a place where
ſhe was entirely unprotected; and the ap-
plication coming from her huſband, could

not but be altogether moſt diſtreſſing to

her. Though I could not fave her from
it, it was poſſible to ſoften the ſhock, by
giving her notice of it; and aſſuring her,
that there was within her reach, a man
who would lay down his life, rather
than ſee her expoſed to any nn
treatment Ws
Sleep was with me entirely out of the
queſtion—At- the earlieſt! dawn of the
morning, I was on horſeback, and direct-
ed my courſe to my former reſidence, the
cottage My ancient hoſt and his wife were
juſt making their homely breakfaſt, on
brown bread and cyder, when I entered
their kitchen; they, were rejoiced, yet
amazed, to ſee me; and I was compelled,
once more, to have recourſe to ſtratagem,
to conceal the real motive of my ſecond
viſit.

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284 DESMON D.

viſit, —I told them, I had found * myſelf
not ſo well after I left their houſe, and had,
therefore, returned from Roſs, to abide
with them a few days longer.

I then conſidered in what way I ſhould
announce to Geraldine the vifit ſhe was to
expect; and I concluded, that I would po
to the houſe and ſend up my name—Slow-
ly and penſively I began this ſhort walk
1 dreaded for her the uneaſineſs I was about
to inflict—I dreaded for myſelf, that 1
ſhould betray, in a way too unequivocally
expreſſive of my ſentiments, all I felt. To
tell her that I apprehended her huſband
had conſigned her to another, was to inti-
mate to her a degree of infamy, almoſt
too ſhocking to be imagined, and that of
a man, with whom ſhe was, perhaps, to
paſs her life, and who was the father of
her children; yet, to let her, for a mo-
ment, think of obeying him, which, it

was poſlible, ſhe might do, if it ſtruck her

as being her duty, was ſtill more dreadful ;

for,

a dt. ab OY — KH + ” _ —

DESMOND. 285

for, but from that rectitude of under-
ſtanding, which I have always remarked
in her; but ji even dreaded the exceſs of
thoſe ſtrict principles, which I have often
known to impel her, contrary. to her-own
wiſhes, and her own ſenſe of propriety, to
follow the dictates of thoſe, who, conſcious
as ſhe muſt be, of their mental inferiority,

had, ſhe thought, a right to her compliance,

As ſoon as I could diſtinctly diſcern the
windows, I ſaw they. were already open,
though it was yet early The morning was
lovely; but my mind was too much oc-
cupied to ſuffer me to enjoy it, I knew
Geraldine uſed to walk early in the little
court that is before her apartments; but
now there was no traces of her having been
out; nor did I hear the voice of my little
playfellow chearfully greeting my return,
as, I own, I had fondly anticipated—All
ſeemed mournfully filent ; yet, 1 thought
I heard ſome footſteps moving ſoftly about
the houſe. I tapped at the old, thick,
carved door with my ſtick ; for there is no

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286 DES MOND.

knocker Nobody anſwered -I repeated
it— Still no anſwer—At length, after wait-
ing near a quarter of an hour at the door,
J lifted up the iron latch, and opened it
I croſſed the brick hall, but ſaw nobody
The door of the parlour, where Geraldine
uſually fits, was a- jar; I puſhed it gently
open, and was ſtruck with a group of
figures, which exactly brought to my mind

that which had been ſo forcibly and pain-

fully impreſſed on it, by my dream at
Hauteville.—

Geraldine was extended on an old
faſhion cane ſopha, or what is, I think, call-
ed a ſettee, ſupported by cuſhions of green
ſtuff,, and with her right arm ſhe claſped
the youngeſt of her children, who appear-
ed to my terrified imagination to be dying,
as its head repoſed on her boſom, while
her tears fell ſlowly on the little pallid
face; the girl, unconſcious of her mo-
ther's anguiſh, ſat upon the pillow behind
her, playing with ſome flowers, and the
eldeſt boy had ſeated himſelf by her in his

4 own

as ws © cos ., od

DESMOND. 287

own little chair, and was holding her left
hand and looking mournfully at her, and
his brother. Fixed to the ſpot by grief
and amazement, I dared hardly breathe
leaſt I ſhould too ſuddenly alarm her. Her
eyes were ſhut, and I only ſaw by the
tears that fell from them, that ſhe was not
in a ſtate of inſenſibility, for my entrance
did not ſeem to diſturb her—ſhe ſuppoſed

n- it to be the maid.
at In a moment, We the little boy
turned round and ſaw me, and ſcreaming

1d my name in an accent of tranſport, as he

- eagearly ran towards me. Geraldine opened

en her eyes, and repeated, Deſmond! gra-

ed cious heaven! Deſmond!”

ar- As ſoon as I could diſengage myſelf

g. from the careſſes of the child I approached

ile —* IT am deſtined” ſaid J in faultering ac

lid cents, I am deſtined to diſturb and alarm
10- you, can you forgive me for this intru-
nd fon ?”—T hefitated—I hardly knew what T |
the would ſay. She gave me however her hand |
his as ſhe roſe; involuntarily I could have

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288 DESMOND.

preſſed it, for the firſt time in my life, to
my trembling lips, but I dared not; and 1
remained holding it {till in mine, while
ſhe ſaid, after a pauſe of a moment“ Ne-
ver was the fight of a friend more truly
welcome.“

The cordiality of this reception, (for
her eyes, heavy as they were, confirmed
the purport of her words) reſtored me to

ſome degree of confidence and compoſure-

I took a chair, unbidden; ſhe begged I
would forgive her for attending to her
Child, who was, ſhe apprehended, danger-
oully ill.—I enquired how long it had
been ſo, and ſhe replied—

« I am grown ſo very weak, Mr. Deſ-
mond, I mean, that I am ſo much diſ-
poſed to be what the fine ladies call ner-
vous, that I am no longer fit for a nurſe;
every fooliſh accident diſcompoſes me, and
of courſe injures my nurſling—l have been

extremely alarmed for the life of this ill-
Rarred baby, within theſe few hours, but
I * my fears have exaggerated the dan.

ger.“
1

DESMOND. 285

ger.“ I had no need to aſk what it was
that had ſo much diſtreſſed her, yet I did
not like abruptly to tell her, that I was
already acquainted with it; ſhe did not
however, lead to it, and we remained for
fome moments filent, while little George
clung about me, and faid he loved me
dearly for coming back.

« Aſk Mr. Deſmond, my love, ſaid Ge-
raldine, as if glad to havethe means of thus
queſtioning me.—* Aſk him, why he came
back when we were afraid he was quite
gone.“ |

It was, anſwered I, to prevent your
being alarmed by the ſuddenneſs of a viſit
from another perſon, which will, even
when you are prepared for it, be, I believe,
difagreeable enough.” She grew more
pale at theſe words“ you mean the Duke
de Romagnecourt?” I anſwered, yes;
and relating breiefly what had paſſed, ex-
cept that part of our converſation that
raiſed my ſuſpicions about her huſband's
having literally fold her, (with which it
was impoſſfible for me to overwhelm her)
Vor. II. Oo 1 aſked

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290 DES MON D.

I aſked; what | ſhe, would do to evade the
importunities of a man, who. ſeemed to
ſuppaſe his wiſhes were not to be counter -
acted, and to believe he need only ap-
pear, to obtain them.“

The dignity of conſcious worth, thus
deſerted, by its protector, gave ſpirit for
a moment to her languid countenance. If
Mr. Verney, ſaid ſhe—but ſhe checked
herſelf, and heftating a moment, faid,
with leſs vivacity—“ if this nobleman
gives himſelf the aaa to come hither,

which, however, I moſt earneſtly wiſh he

may not, my anſwer will be very poſitive,
and very ſhort I am extremely obliged to
you for giving me notice of his intent ions;
but if you could prevent his coming
It did not, at that moment, appear to
her that my interference was liable to a

thouſand miſconſtructions — but before

ſhe had finiſhed the ſentence, this occurred.
to her very forcibly; and ſhe added

4 but I beg your pardon for my inconſi·

derate folly this cannot be he muſt

ener unt as L am, the
irkſome

R

DESMOND 29
irkſome ceremony of ſeeing him, and of
giving him my poſitive refuſall.
„ And if he ſhould afterwards perſiſt “
<< Impoflible—heſurely cannot intend it?”
I then gave her a ſpecimen'of his con-
verſation, which I had, till now, mention-
ed only in general terms. She was much
affected at the idea, that the ſtrange and

unmanly conduct of Verney had expoſed

her to a ſcene ſo imptoper, and ſo extra-
ordinary—And I faw her turn her eyes, ex-
preſſive of the moſt acute maternal anguiſnh,
and filled with tears, on her children, par
ticularly on the little one in her arms;
but even in this moment ſhe uttered no oom ·
plaint againſt their cruel father, though 1
faw her boſom heave as bitter reflections
on — ſwelled * heart almoſt to

burſtings
Oh! Bethel! why could n at that
moment, have taken this lovely, injured
woman and her children openly under my
protection Why could I not aver that
ardent, yet ſacred paſſion I feel for her)
A inſteud of daring to own it, and to
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292 DES MON p.

offer her my life, I was ſtruggling, per-
haps inefficaciouſly ſtruggling, to make
all J ſaid, all I propoſed, appear as the
dictates of mere friendſhip; and to perſuade
her, that, from a mere friend, ſhe might,
nay, -ought to accept my counſel, if ſhe
could not my offers of ſervice.— After 2
farther conference of half an hour, during
which, I ſaid all that might, without too
much alarming her, put her upon ber guard
againſt the Duc de Romagnecourt's pro-
jects—I was preparing to take my leave,
when ſhe aſked me if I had breakfaſted
I never once recollected that I had not

Sue ordered breakfaſt to be brought; and, 1
ſaw, made an effort to be chearful, but it

was evidently forced; her eyes anxiouſly
followed the child, as the maid carried it out
of the room remarked, that notwith-
ſtanding the particular converſation in
which we were engaged during breakfaſt,
the liſtened to every noiſe above ſtairs, and
went out twice to enquire after it.— It was
proper I ſhould go— for, I knew, I muſt
be an inconvenient interruption to her; =
WINES V I

D ESM ON D. 293

© e ain dips NS 7 2

e On her return the laſt time into this
le room, ſhe ſmiled on me with angelic
t, ſweetneſs, and aſked if I forgave her
* abrupt rudeneſs? — She then ſat down
2 again endeavored once more to regain
g her compoſure; and enquired at what time
50 I thought it probable ſne might be oppreſſ-
rd ed by the honor that threatened her?—As
o- ſhe thus again introduced the ſubject, I
N collected reſolution enough to tell her. that
— my fears of her ſufferings did not end with
— this viſit—for that 1 thought the noble
51 foreigner very likely to perſevere in his
it entreaties, and leave nothing unattempted
ſly to enforce them. At the word enforce, on
"ut which I laid a ſtrong emphaſis, ſhe ſmiled,
the and aſked me if I thought he would really
in enact a French Sir Hargrave Pollexfen,
ſt, and carry her to Paris without her own
nd conſent ?—T anſwered very » gravely, that
vas though that could hardly be done; yet,
uſt that ſhe might, and I was afraid, would
yet find the Duke a viſitor of great perſe-
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294 DESMOND.

verance, and one who would not, without
great difficulty, be diſſuaded to 'recede
from a point which, he thought, he had
her huſband's authority to perſiſt in.

She looked at me, as if to examine whe-
ther I meant more than I ſaid -i ſuppoſe
I looked as if I did But again ſhe endea-
vored to laugh off the fears which the
would willingly believe groundleſs.—** I
cannot imagine, ſaid ſne, why you
have taken it into your head, that this man
would give himſelf ſo much trouble—1
dare ſay he will make a ſine ſpeech or two,
be au defſeſpoir, that he cannot have the
happineſs of my company, and content
himſelf with ſhrugging up his ſhoulders at
my want of common ſenſe, in preferring
this pays. triſte id morne, with my children, to
the delights of a journey to Paris with him.

« I with,? replied I, * ir VERN (0,
my dear Madam ĩ

But you doubt _ woch e

41 do, indeed. I then gave her dome
ſtronger reaſons, drawn: from my obſerva-
tions of the preteding evening, why'F

doubted

DESMOND. 295
doubted it“ You are,” ſaid T, © quite
unprotected here; you have not even a
man- ſervant who might ſhut your doors
againſt impertinent intruſion.— She allow-
ed this; and when I aſked her whether I
had her permiſſion to remain at the cot-
tage, I had before inhabited, till I ſaw the
event of this viſit, a faint bluſh; which

ſpoke a thouſand: grateful, yet fearful ſens

ſations, | was viſible on her cheek But
checking her fear, her pure and noble
mind yielded only to gratitude, 'ſhe gave
me once more her lovely hand“ It is
worthy of you,” ſaid ſhe, with enchanting
frankneſs, © to make ſo generous an offer,
I accept it rather to quiet your apprehen-
ſions than my own ; but it muſt be upon
condition, that you run no-riſk-of embroil-
ing yourſelf with chis extraordinary viſitor
of mine,” I aſſured her I would not; and
having obtained permiſſion to wait ap her
for half an hour in ung L took thy
leave. g noc 1

And now, my dear friend; PEI
ten; this volume PTY ſeen from

boiduob my

295 DESMOND.

my windows the carriage of Romagne-
court go to her houſe—Impatiently I awaits
ed its return, which was not for an hour
and a half; and now go to enquire the re-
ſult; and as I ſhall ſend this immenſe
packet away to-day, and ſhall have no
opportunity to write again for ſome time, I
leave you to comment on the ſtrange ſtory
I have related, and to blame, for ſo I
doubt not but you will, (fince chivalry is
no more) this romantic knight-errantry

Of your faithful,
LIONEL DESMOND.

You ſee I conclude chearfully, which
T account for by telling you, that when-
ever I am to ſee Geraldine, I feel in hea-
ven; and I hope to ſec her this evening
reſtored*to quiet, for her child was better
when I left her; (indeed, I believe her
tenderneſs greatly exaggerated his danger)
and I hope the noble Duke has departed
peaceably with his final anſwer ; yet, till I
am aſſured that ſhe is completely relieved
from his inſolent importunities, my heart,
I find, muſt be ſubject to frequent fits of
anxieties and indignation,

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME,
20
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